


Hierarchy and Autonomy

by Irukashi_Narukib



Series: H & A [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A Peter/Stiles fic w/past traumas between Stiles and others, Alpha Peter Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst with a Happy Ending, Contracts, Crying, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Explicit Consent, F/M, Flashbacks, Hand Feeding, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mind Games, Multi, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Past Relationship(s), Past Sexual Abuse, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Violence, Sharing a Bed, Steter - Freeform, Swimming, The pairing is not abusive, Werewolf Culture, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:59:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27146981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irukashi_Narukib/pseuds/Irukashi_Narukib
Summary: In a werewolf society omegas are expected to succumb to their base urges. Stiles has refused for eight years, can he for one more?Conceptually based off of:Alpha SpikesBy StarbeastandDevil of MercybyKouriArashi
Relationships: Aiden/Ethan/Stiles Stilinski, Deucalion/Stiles Stilinski, Ennis/Stiles Stilinski, Ethan/Danny Mahealani, Kali/Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall/Kira Yukimura, Stiles Stilinski/Original Character(s), Theo Raeken/Stiles Stilinski
Series: H & A [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2002687
Comments: 38
Kudos: 156





	1. You're on

_Biology._

_Biology is my greatest enemy._

Stiles looks out his window with contempt. His birthday was two days ago and like always it signaled the worst week of the year. Ever since his 15th birthday, an entire year early, a normally depressingly solemn day became a shrieking horn of warning for what loomed ahead. 

Heat week. The week of the year when every alpha and omega alive experience a massive uptick in their pheromone production and they each are consumed in a brutal haze of stifling warmth and desire. Betas experience it too, but it’s well known that it’s tame in comparison. 

It’s his 12th time experiencing it and it’s just as awful this year. He can’t stand it. He can feel it crawling beneath his skin when he wakes. He can feel it when he eats breakfast. And he can definitely feel it when the knock at the hotel door snaps what little capacity he has to ignore it in half. He’s stationed in Southern California this year. He was brought to the hotel from Sacramento last week. He hates it here, it’s warmer in Corona Del Mar than most of the places he’s been schlepped off to for these things. 

He grabs his taser and heads to the door. He’s dressed informally to make a point. 

“You’re not wearing a regulation approved outfit,” one of the half dozen masked and armored guards state when he opens the door. 

“Smart observation. It’s this or I show up naked to the ceremony; because, I’ll shred any suit you force me into.” 

The lead guard stands still a moment scrolling through their tablet before responding. “Fine.” They say and gesture Stiles out of the door. 

Half an hour later and one taser burst later, Stiles finds himself being shoved into his seat by his five remaining guards. He stills himself uncomfortably and waits on his 9th picking ceremony to begin. It’ll go the same way as it always goes. **_Terribly._** And he’ll end up in the same position he finds himself each year ** _. Compromised and degraded._**

The virgin omegas over eighteen are all shepherded off in a division away from all others in attendance. They’re closer to the stage, for convenience. This way the half dozen or so, semi-local, Alphas can sift through their crop easier and without challenge. 

He isn’t afforded any information about the alphas this year, not that he ever is. Omegas never are, not until whichever selected emissary representative decides to begin prattling off about the first of the alphas. He can barely focus on the inane praises. He never can, not that he ever needs to pay attention to any rant other than the first. Between the pressure of his skin boiling from both the inside-out and outside-in, and his ADHD; his attention is shot. One of the male alphas is standing next to the podium and is whispering to an emissary in a pressured manner. He locks eyes with Stiles for several unnecessarily long moments and then finishes his conversation. The man had been third in line before, but when he returns to it; he’s first. 

Stiles looks off to the crowd. He can smell his dad in the crowd somewhere in the back with the other betas sweating bullets. Scott’s there too, with Kira. _Lucky her. She doesn’t have to experience this._ Stiles remarks to himself. Other shifters don’t have to deal with this. Just werewolves. 

Alan Deaton won’t shut up. And his announcements only get louder once the woman emissary whispers something in his ear. The droning bores into Stiles’s frustrated mind like a trepanation drill. An hour and a half later, once he’s finished delivering praises for the excruciatingly long host of twelve alphas he introduces the intimidating one who was moved to the front.

“Peter Hale,” Deaton reminds them all, “will now begin the selection process for the Southern California region.” 

His eyes catch Stiles’s own the moment he finishes his petty overtures and platitudes to the councils. Stiles rises from his seat and awaits what his every sense is already telling him. The man descends from the stage and _saunters_ into the center aisle. Stiles is in the center of the next to last row on the right side of the stage. Peter walks to directly Stiles and offers his hand forcefully. Stiles holds Peter’s gaze for a bit longer than he should, averts his eyes ruefully, and takes it. 

The crowd cheers from behind the dividers. The familiar mournful sense of disgust and self-pity consume him, the way they have every year since he was first chosen on his eighteen birthday. 

He’s led to the stage and gets the usual questions and his own introduction by the woman announcer, Morrel. The sexism and it’s basic link to his classification make the experience all the more indignant. He fields the questions with frustration:

  * Who are you? Mieczyslaw Stilinski but you can call me “Stiles.”
  * Where are you from Stiles? Beacon Hills, Sacramento now.
  * How old are you? 26.
  * What is with your outfit selection? Aren’t you at pleased to be chosen? No.



This answer gets him hauled off stage by his latest conservator. He misses the rest of the selection process. A choosing ceremony tradition for him at this point. 

He’s shoved into the back of a black limousine and the door slams behind him. _I’ll never see that taser again._ He turns to the opposing door before it opens and stares at it blankly as The Alpha descends into the seat next to his. 

“You know. I heard that your scent was something remarkable. But, I never imagined I’d be able to smell it _before_ I got on stage.” 

“You’re welcome.” Stiles says into the glass. The response is automatic, detached, the way it’s been since his third choosing. Whichever alpha goes first always chooses him. They either change the line up or it’s a spur of the moment choice when they get in the lines; but he’s always first.

***

“You’re by far the loveliest omega I have ever scented,” The alpha whispers into his ear. Deucalion is his name. Stiles can hardly stand still next to the guy. It’s only his first time at the choosing and usually eighteen-year-olds are never chosen. The man has a death grip on his shoulder and Stiles can barely focus on the podium. The touch of an alpha and the pheromones are already overwhelming his senses. He can feel his heat amping up several fold.

He’s already 48 hours into the cycle, 48 more than everyone else, and it took everything he had just to get dressed before he’d been dragged from his hotel room. It took three guards just to get his first arm into the restraints and another’s rib cage being permanently sacrificed to constrain the other. The enchanted steel still chafes his skin as he fields questions through the panic. He’s nearly blinded from all the flashing cameras. It’s cold as hell in the Northern Canadian hall he was forced to attend for the ceremony. He shivers and leans into the microphone. He can’t remember what he’d said, but a moment after his third question he’d been ripped away and marched out of the public eye. 

“Do not test me boy.” The grit of it through Deucalion’s teeth terrified him more than being pulled away from his dad just a few days prior. It worried him more than being stuffed into a car and being locked in it on the way to the airport. It sobered him more than stepping off the plane in Quebec. Stiles steeled his eyes and looked down on his way to the next car he was sure to be captured in. He didn’t breathe a word on the way to the strange complex of cabins and ski lodge looking buildings Deucalion kept as housing for his closest pack members. Hours of nervous silence and inching away from a pursuing predator made him skittish as he worked his way through the dim halls to the room he’d later find out he’d be in for an entire week.

***

“What are you looking off at?”

“Nothing.”

“Then look at me. I’m far more interesting than the scenery.”

“You guys always think that. Always demanding something of me. Why can’t you ever just let me rest or better yet not pick me.” Stiles shifts himself to another seat half-way up the limousine cabin and slumps against the leather interior.

“So, the legends about you are true,” Peter says and dusts off his deep blue suit jacket. 

“Which ones?” Stiles asks and turns towards the window. He rests his head on it, seeking the cool relief of the glass. He hasn’t been able to fully ground himself since 2AM on the 9th. _April. What an ill timed month._ He groans softly. 

“That you’re the worst behaved omega to be chosen in the last century.” 

“Sorry to disappoint.” Stiles says and rolls his eyes to himself. 

“Hardly. It’ll make this weekend far more entertaining.”

Stiles just whimpers and his first tear of the year falls from his eye, hidden from his cabin mate as it absorbs into his damp, grey-cotton sweat pants.

***

Stiles arrives at the worst place he can remember. A strange stone house in the middle of the woods just outside Atlanta somewhere. Why the structure was built here he couldn’t imagine. It was an abomination in the damp heat of the southern state. He was clammy beyond belief the moment he stepped in. The feeling never departed his skin for his entire stay there. Ennis had constructed it. The cooling vents rasped in his ear no matter which room he was tied up in. He can still remember the feel of the endless bruises that marred his skin. Each hour brought up a new spattering of internal bleeding and half broken skin for his resistance. He refused Ennis multiple times the first day.

Each rough touch to his skin was a punishment the alpha had used in a failed attempt to _“seduce”_ him. The second day there he’d spent naked chained to a bed for his insolence. Ennis had worked his body over tirelessly trying to get Stiles to succumb to his heat. Ennis was hoping to see the fight fade from his eyes and his jaw slack as a function of desperate need and desire; like so many others had so easily. It never worked. Sleep deprivation, hand feeding, hours of foreplay, dirty talk: Stiles spurned it all. In the end, Ennis wanted him to beg to be taken.

“You’ll have to beg me to relieve you. You little asshole.” Rung in his ears multiple times a day. Each insult was punctuated by a whip, cut, or paddling. He didn’t speak the week of his 21st birthday. A crown of wolfsbane soaked thorns was his only gift that year.

***

They pull away from the city center and the half hour drive to Peter’s mansion is underway. 

Peter demands attention. He just won’t be quiet. The entire ride, he’s whispering, or declaring something Stiles can’t hold onto. Promises, lost in a haze of smoke and confusion. Stiles gets out of the car and is floored by the sight of a large seaside mansion. The smell of the salt in his nose has him sprinting for the water in a moment of excited forgetfulness. He gets half way down the beach before Peter catches up with him and tackles him. He falls to the ground and the sand burns and scrapes his skin under his shirt. His elbows burn in the mid-day sun. Peter’s laughing above him. A hot kiss scorches his face when he’s flipped face up.

***

Kali didn’t wait for permission. The moment they were in the car she lunged on him. The boiling Nevada heat pervaded even the car’s cabin through the air conditioner’s futile attempts. Stiles groaned against it. His body was rioting in the seat she had him pinned to. The affront had him off guard. At his last 4 choosing ceremonies, each of the other alphas had at least given him some illusion of choice the first day. His body fought him, trying to slake itself of the pressure. The intensity overwhelmed him on his way to her casino. She ushered him into an elevator and after a quick ten-minute drive and pursued him into wall after wall as he fought to regain some control of himself on the way up.

The elevator dinged their arrival. He ran into the living room that opened out behind him and noticed the one thing the massive penthouse lacked. Sound. The entire room was silent. Kali pursued him quietly. Each surface was a danger as Stiles skirted around it.

His pleads filled the room and died in the air. Each “Please, don’t” and “I don’t want this,” met a sonic death the moment it escaped his mouth. Each time she pinned him into something, trying to take from him what she wanted, their bodies were revealed slightly more. Clothes turned to rags in their dance of panic and pursuit.

The first and last thing he heard that week were her shouts for help after she pressed a button half a room away from him. He didn’t know how she had ended up over a busted teak table, splinters filling the air like angry dust. But, he does remember the blankness of the pale sand walls in the containment room he was kept the rest of the week.

***

When he comes back to himself Peter his standing several paces away looking winded. His suit is coated in sand and his hair is doused in it. Peter's thick black curls are a mess soaked in damp sand and granulated sea shell.

“Well, I’ve certainly never received that kind of response.” Peter declares and dusts off his jacket. He frowns not a moment later when his fingers meet slices in the top half of the shoulders on each side. “I guess I won’t be wearing this again,” Peter remarks and slips it off to reveal blood stains on the thin, white, linen dress shirt. “This either, I suppose.” Peter unbuttons it and throws it to the ground.

He walks over to Stiles and outstretches a hand for him to pull himself up with. Stiles takes it. His eyes are glued to the muscles in Peter’s arms as he aids pull Stiles up. “Fancy a swim?”

Stiles looks out at the water. His mouth smiles and then frowns. “I don’t have a swim suit.”

“You can borrow one of mine if you really want one.”

“Sure,” he says and awaits the arrival of the clothes. He takes them quietly and begins stripping.

“You sure you want to do that here?” Peter asks staring at Stiles’s pale upper body.

“Would it matter if I didn’t.”

Something in Peter’s scent turns foul and he turns around. “Go into the house and change. My butler will show you to the changing room.”

 _So this is the kind of alpha he’ll be._ Stiles walks back to the house and is shuffled into a powder room with a full vanity. He changes into the shorts quickly. He looks at himself in the mirror and frowns. He worries at the bottom seam. The shorts are vibrant, loud even considering Peter’s measured demeanor. They smell like they’ve been worn recently. They’re only a few inches long on the inseam so they’re revealing, but they’re loose which is more privacy than he’s used to being afforded. He sighs and walks out of the bathroom headed for the beach. He’s handed a towel on the way out and all the staff disappears by the time he gets to Peter’s side. Peter’s hovering, a half foot in front of the tide.

Peter doesn’t even turn. But, the hairs on the back of Stiles’s neck rise anyway. He can hear light sniffs, just beneath the sound of the sloshing water. “Should we go in?” Stiles asks.

“Do you like them?”

“The shorts? They’re nice I guess,” Stiles acquiesces.

Peter’s scent sours in his nose again. “I’ll have them choose different ones next time.” Peter grabs Stiles by the hand and pulls him in towards the water.

They swim for hours. Stiles loses track of time. He’s adrift in the lapping water and heady purposeful teasing of Peter ebbing and flowing around him. The grazes are fast and light. Stiles’s senses barely grab onto each one before the water smooths it away. His heat abates in the cold early-spring water.

At some point Peter takes his hand again and ushers him onshore. He frowns. Peter does too. A few moments after they get out they’ve made it to a table that materialized when they were in the water. It has their towels on it and Peter wraps him in one. His heat rises back up through the coiling pit in his stomach and he moans.

“Are you hungry?”

“Yeah.”

Peter snaps his fingers and moments later a meal is placed on the table. Peter sets the two chairs close together facing each other next to the table and gestures for Stiles to sit. It takes him a moment, but he wills his feet to shuffle over to the proffered seat. He sits and avoids Peter’s gaze. He studies the table and notices a large numbered sundial steadied just off the far edge of the table. “Half past one,” Stiles observes quietly.

“My staff are excellent at their jobs and know better than to intrude on me while I swim. Don’t worry, they won’t be around other than mealtimes after tonight.” Peter extends an arm out towards him offering a bite of shrimp. Stiles halts for a moment, and timidly takes a bite. Peter eats the other half not a moment later. It carries on like that until Stiles is full, not that he is full. He just can’t bring himself to eat more for fear of his growing daze.

He keeps his face poised, but he can smell the excitement shifting beneath Peter’s repose. He stands up from the table, only to topple over into the sand sloppily. Peter’s above him in an instant pulling him from his place wrapped in the heat of the sand.

“I’m fine. I’m fine,” Stiles says already doing his level best to pursue the ocean’s wake back out to sea.

“You don’t seem fine.” Peter says pulling Stiles back around.

“You smell good. Go away.” Stiles says weakly wrenching out of Peter’s grip.

Peter lets him go after a few seconds of harsh glaring trying to discern what is going on. He stands there watching Stiles swim leisurely in the briny water while his brain clicks everything together like a puzzle. The selection had occurred late this year, but none of the others in the crowd had exhibited the familiar heady intoxicant of onsetting heat. Peter thinks of the combative conversations they’d had in the car and his curt responses to the questions on stage. 

When Stiles finally gets back out looking distant, but sober Peter grins. _More entertaining indeed._ He meets Stiles with another towel.

Stiles rebuffs him and walks towards the house. Peter follows as Stiles sniffs his way through his house, dripping sea water onto his cold stone floors. He follows Stiles all the way up the stars to his room. He stops outside his closet, into which Stiles marches determinedly and begins perusing. Stiles selects some thin linen boating shorts Peter hasn’t worn in years. Then he rifles through shirts for an old cherry red polo Peter had forgotten he owned. He digs through to the back of the underwear drawer and pulls out some sleeping boxers. Then Stiles pushes past Peter and slams the bathroom door behind him. Peter hums to himself and waits until he hears water pulsing out of the shower head to open the door.

“How long have you been fighting a daze?” He asks confidently and rests against his counter, back to the vanity.

“Leave me alone pervert.”

“All day?” Peter asks lasciviously.

“I’m not talking to you,” Stiles says and begins scrubbing the salt from his body.

“Longer?”

…

“When did your heat set in?” Peter purrs.

…

“Yesterday?”

“No.”

“The day before.”

“Will you give me some peace?” Stiles snaps.

Peter grins and walks out of the bathroom. “I’ll see you in a bit,” Peter reminds him do try not to waste too much of my lotion or body wash. They're expensive.”

Stiles opens his eyes. He can tell the bathroom door is still open through the opaque glass. He looks around, finds, and dumps the body wash out of the bottle. He watches it lather and swirl on the tiled floor of the large rainfall/steam shower hybrid until he’s ready to get out. He gets out and dries off roughly before getting dressed. When he has; he walks out into the bedroom and surveys it in earnest. There isn’t much to it. There’s a large bed against the center of the back wall. It’s adorned in slate grey sheets and has a white blanket folded back at the edge. They smell clean, almost sterile. Next to it is a black wooden nightstand with several charging cables all fastened into place. There is one pad to charge a smart watch, one for a phone, and a general cable next to them. The drawers are nearly empty. Supplies for the week, nothing else. On the other side it’s mostly the same, but with a host of snacks in the lower cabinet as well. The walls are a surprising off white that’s a little more aquamarine than most rich people would put in their homes. The far wall has a large sliding door behind a long line of blackout drapes that match the wall. The only personal belonging in the entire room is a large dotted abstract painting that’s a mix of red, yellow, and orange dots on the wall across from the sliding door. A small placard was next to it. _Emily Kame Kngwarreye._

Peter’s in the doorway when Stiles looks over. “It beautiful isn’t it? I saw a remarkably similar one in a gallery in 2015. This is the closest piece to it that’s ever been for purchase. I had to leave the hall prematurely and haven’t been able to find the work that enamored me with in the style since.”

“It makes me feel like-” Stiles drifts off.

“We should be a part of some collective? Yeah, me too. But, not all things are achievable. So, I have this. To remind me of what feelings are worth chasing.”

“And which would those be?”

“Serenity.”

Stiles snorts.

“Mock me all you want. But, this painting has bought me more peace of mind than some people will feel their entire lives.”

“And they say money can’t buy happiness.”

“That’s just what we tell the poor to make them feel less envious of what the rich have.”

Stiles laughs. He laughs to the brink of collapse. He laughs until his eyes are welded shut and tears frame his mouth as he gasps for air and he’s forced to brace his hands on his knees.

Eventually, he stands up straight and walks Peter with a pat on the shoulder. Peter frowns as the echoes of the sound deplete themselves from his bedroom.

Peter follows him through the halls and sits next to him when Stiles comes to a stop at his couch in the main living room. Stiles shifts away a seat.

“You really don’t like me do you?”

“I have nothing against you. It’s this whole process. I hate it.” 

“You’ll change your mind.”

“No, I won’t.”

“You will. Because, I’m going to make you want me. And then, you’ll never want anyone else,” Peter says voice smooth and buttery in Stiles ear. He draws in close to Stiles and lightly grips the back of his neck. 

Stiles shudders for a while before he can talk again. “I don’t want anyone else either. I want to not be subjected to this every year.”

“Then why not give in? Why not just, heed your body’s urges. You won’t be subjected to the next selection if you just participate.” Peter tries to pull him in, body to body, but Stiles stays in place. He’s steadfastly glued to the seat as if he’s willed himself to become part of the couch itself. 

“Because it’s basically non-consensual sex?” Stiles replies. His vision blurs and he feels himself slipping away.

“I’ll convince you, you’ll want me.” Peter croons and tucks his head over Stiles’s shoulder. 

“I’ll never give you what you want. Not like this. Just sitting here is unbearable,” Stiles whimpers. It’s never been this hard to resist before. It’s only two days in and he can already feel himself drowning in his heat. Peter dominates his senses. Stiles can feel a pull to him like iron to a magnet.

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Then let’s make a game of it,” Peter says.

“A game?” Stiles asks, incredulity pushing his mind back above the surface.

“I like a challenge. And you’re possibly the best opponent I’ve ever had, even in this lust addled state. Maybe, you’re even more worthy because of it.”

“What’re you proposing.”

“A simple game.”

“The rules?”

“You allow me to make a growing list of rules you have to follow. For each one I have to make to advantage myself in the game, you get to make another request of me to fulfill at the end of the game.”

“Do I get to make rules?”

“Of course. Ground rules. To make sure, I can’t take advantage of you.”

“And how would you win.”

“Simple, I convince you to beg me to relieve you. Three times. You have to beg me specifically to relieve you three times and then after that I won’t hold back. We’ll alleviate your virgin status and if you want you’ll never have to see me again after your heat ends and your time with me ends."

“It’ll have to be a specific phrase each time to make sure I’m thinking clearly enough to make the choice. And me getting off accidentally because of my heat can’t count. I can’t control it, especially if you start trying to leverage that end.”

“Sounds fair.”

“Write up some ground rules and we can start tomorrow.”

“You’ll never break me, you know.”

“Then it looks like I have a lot of expenses ahead of me.” Peter says, kisses him on the cheek and shoves off the couch. “Once I issue a challenge, I don’t take it back. If you make that list; I won’t relent until I win, or your heat abates. And, if you choose to quit at any point once we’ve begun; I will request your presence through the council next year.” Peter walks out of view into the kitchen, opens the refrigerator, and pulls out fruit water and pours himself a cup.

Stiles walks in, his jaw is set firm. The look he gives Peter shakes something loose inside the alpha. “You’re on.” Stiles walks back out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoy the outset of this fic. I'm basically internally screaming trying to force y brain to focus enough to write it. I felt satisfied to end a first chapter here. The first 3k was easy enough to write but the last third was brutal with my brain fighting every moment to distract me from the page. I went back over it several times and think it ended up pretty good. 
> 
> Tell me if the flashbacks need some sort of improved demarcation. Also, notify me of any tags you think are important that I forgot. Like I said, poor focus towards the end here.
> 
> Enjoy!  
> XOXO Iru_Naru  
> Peace


	2. Playing By the Rules

“Stop that,” Stiles says.

“Why?”

“It makes it difficult to concentrate.”

“Shall that go on your rules list then?”

“Shut up.”

“You’ve been saying both of those things for the last ten minutes. Yet, you still haven’t written it in your preliminary rules set,” Peter teases. He peers over at the paper in question from his place on the couch behind Stiles. Stiles is squirming and slumping in place as Peter’s fingers dig into his shoulder muscles. Stiles stares harder at the paper in front of him. “I always tell people that I want them to feel comfortable saying whatever they’re feeling to my face,” Peter says after another moment of silence. “They never do though.”

“Probably because they know you’re just trying to get free information.”

“Underhanded solicitation is beneath me. People reveal enough of themselves without me begging for more,” Peter says and digs his fingers in deeper.

Stiles groans. His fingers crumple the page of paper in his hand. He closes his eyes and stands up. “Just stay there and let me focus.” Stiles walks outside, strides down the beach, and sits on the deep brown metal chair beside the glass table from earlier in the day. He places the paper on it and tries to smooth it on the rose gold painted metal edge. He looks inside the house. Peter’s out of view for the moment. The large red lounging couch’s low back reveals the hall behind it. The stairs are beautiful, but they break the room up and disguise the entrance. It has a glass encasement with a sleek chrome railing from bottom to top. Its wide enough to fit at least six people side to side Stiles estimates.

Stiles studies the area for a while longer before returning to the paper. He looks at it.

  1. No deprivation on physical needs (Sleep, Food, Water, etc.)



Stiles hears the faint rasp of a sliding door and his hand stalls above the page. He looks around, but Peter’s no where to be seen and the back door is still closed. He goes back to the page and starts to write again.

  1. No public appearances until the end of the week.
  2. No



His hand scratches a hole in the paper when he smells it. His eyes twitch and he focuses in on a third-floor balcony. He folds up the paper and heads inside the house. Stiles marches directly through the building up the stairs back to Peter’s room. He slams the door open to the sight of clothes strewn across the floor. The bathroom door is wide open and he can see Peter in the shower. He'd left that door open as well giving Stiles an eyeful of everything the his nose already told him was happening. “Could you not?”

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you over the water,” Peter says, a grin splits across his face. “Come in here.”

Stiles goes to the glass door of the balcony and slams it shut. “I’m breaking it next time,” he declares and walks back out of the bedroom and closes that door too. He takes the paper out of his pocket, and slaps it on the wall. He finishes the third rule:

No forcing me to watch you fuck other people.

***

The Twins were nice at first, if not a bit odd. Ethan seemed interested. Aiden didn’t. They chose him together anyway. They were announced as “recently risen” alphas when the Milwaukee Region Emissary Council introduced them. That meant one thing. They left him alone during the car ride over, mostly electing to talk to each other. They didn’t haul him off early either, which was a surprise. It was hard focusing through the rest of his sixth ceremony, heat struck early this year for everyone, the second year in a row. When they got out, Ethan took his hand and then opened the doors for him. He was ushered inside and was shuffled into a near barren dining hall before being shown the rest of the house.

 _Probably killed some old dude in his 60s._ He thought as they showed him around their residence.

“It’s under renovation. We were only released our funds recently, it takes time to update everything,” Aiden tells him while they’re in their eighth endless white hallway of the tour.

“It’s very clean,” Stiles offers.

“Aiden hates cobwebs, he made sure that the entire place was washed and repainted starting the first day we moved in.” They lead him down the hall to a large sunset orange room with a bay window overlooking Lake Michigan. There’s a large bed in the center of the room that’s adorned with white sheets and red pillows, other strangely shaped furniture is sprinkled across the room. “This is where you’ll be staying,” Ethan tells him. Several feet from the bed is a chrome pole that protrudes from the floor to the ceiling. Stiles nods and enters. He tries not to say anything, but the expectations are clear.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” Stiles asks.

“Conditionally,” Aiden says.

“So long as it isn’t rude,” Ethan says and elbows Aiden in the ribs.

“Why do you guys choose together?” Stiles asks and walks to the window.

“Oh, that.”

“We inherited our power together. So, we choose together,” Aiden says.

“Okay, and why did you choose me?”

“I just couldn’t resist. You smelled so, different from all the others,” Ethan says.

“Does this mean you’re both going to try to, you know.”

Aiden laughs. “No, I’m not interested. I was done with men the first time. Even if you’re an omega. I’m just not going for it.”

“Yeah, we are totally opposite about the whole thing.” Ethan says. “We’re going to take turns choosing traditionally. But, this room isn’t just for you to be honest.”

“What?”

“We plan on finding several others to choose from for the week. Though, you’ll be Ethan’s primary focus. We want to remove as many omegas from the selection pool as possible,” Aiden informs him.

“We were omegas last year. We got chosen as a pair, as requested,” Ethan says.

“I wasn’t happy about who chose us,” Aiden grits out.

“But now, we’re here.” Ethan lands a hand on Aiden’s shoulder.

“Right.” Aiden forces a smile.

“Well, make yourself comfortable. We’re going to find something to eat. If you need anything there’s a button on the wall to call for some beta security guards. They’ll help direct you to whatever you need.”

Stiles sits on the pad on the nook of the window and stares out over the water. He waits for their voices and footsteps retreat before he sighs.

***

Stiles starts investigating the house, looking for something to distract himself from the indecency he can’t tune out upstairs. He starts on the third floor but is met with a series of locked doors. He tries the second floor next. The first door is locked; however, the second door is already open. The slight crack reveals an artfully arranged series of vintage arcade games. The sounds of each is muted, but the blinking lights are a siren song in and of themselves. He slips inside and shuts the door quietly. He shuffles over to a Galaga machine and presses the start button. The music trills in his ears to signal the start of the game, and Stiles is instantly lost in a pattern of joystick jostling and button mashing. When he loses his last life, the sudden silence gives purchase to the goings on upstairs. He slaps the start button again.

Stiles gets another ten stages in before Peter comes downstairs. Stiles registers an open and shutting of the door behind him but can’t afford to take his eyes off the screen.

“Glad to see you’re enjoying yourself.” Peter says and Stiles eyes register motion in his periphery. The o.g. PacMan machine starts whirring and whomping next to him.

“I hate losing. You reek,” Stiles says.

“We all lose eventually. And try being on this side of things. You’d understand my predicament.”

“And not me, not this year. You offering to trade?”

“Of course not. You plan on staying in this room without food or drink for the remainder of your stay?”

“No, you’ll feed me. You all do. You always do. I love it, probably the best thing about this whole set up. I wonder what level I can get to with your assistance. My brain absolutely shuts off and focuses when I’m eating. Probably the only time my brain is ever not splitting focus.” Stiles says and rapid fire clears the last of the enemy ships on the screen. “Yes!”

“Good to know. Though I don’t really think we’ll be able to play our game if you’re here playing this one. I won’t feed you if I can’t even get a participation trophy.”

“And what would that trophy be?” Stiles retorts.

“Your attention.”

“You already have it.”

“Undivided.”

Stiles glances over while the screen resets. Peter is smiling but isn’t looking away from the glowing screen in front of him. “Fine, but only if you can outlast me in this game here. Otherwise, you’ll never get my respect as a gamer.”

“And so, it begins.”

They spend the next half hour playing games next to each other. Peter keeps stealing touches from him. Fleeting grazes of his hand on Stiles’s skin serve only to distract. He loses several extra ships because of it. Peter breezes through levels as efficiently as can be made possible only dropping a single life.

“You know I just realized how much of a handicap you’re playing.”

“You set the terms. I’m just playing by the rules.”

“You’re cheating.”

“You told me to outlast you. Maneuvering a joystick efficiently is one of my many talents. You never said I had to play two handed,” Peter cajoles.

“You’re depraved you know that. Truly, you joke like a teenager. Completely immature.”

“What should I be? Decrepit? Tired? Sagely and wise? The world doesn’t work like that. You don’t age until suddenly you’re some sagely hermit. Sometimes, you persist long enough to embarrass a twenty something that’s half decent at Galaga.” Peter says in his ear. Stiles looks over and sees he’s between levels and frowns.

Stiles hears a ship exploding coming from his machine. “Fuck!”

“Lose your last ship?” Peter chides.

“You wish.”

“May I ask you a question?” Peter says some time later.

“No, but I know you’ll ask anyway.”

“Why didn’t you ever?”

“Try to become an Alpha?”

“It’s confused me since I read your file. You’ve launched several alphas, myself included clear across the room. It’s not like you lack the strength to take it.”

“I don’t want to be like you.”

“Want to try that again? I barely heard the lie when you said ‘I don’t want.’ Maybe if you tell me a second time it’ll be easier.”

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Stiles says and turns. “I don’t want to use interpersonal violence to get what I want from people. It’s wrong. I protect myself when I have to, nothing more.” His last ship explodes in the background and he walks to the door to the room.

Peter’s caught up to him by the time that he opens the door. He grabs Stiles by the hand softly. “Are you hungry?” Peter asks and points to the clock on the wall. _6:03._

After a moment of consideration Stiles looks back at Peter. “Only because I know you’ll stop asking me questions if I’m chewing. You’re the polite company type of eater and I know you’d hate to watch me talk with my mouth full.”

“We have an accord at last.”

***

Stiles bites into the caviar with delight. The salty taste fills his mouth and instantly he relaxes. Peter gives him several more crackers piled high with it before changing to a more substantial dish. The cooking staff walks out with a lobster bisque and fresh baked sourdough. Peter tears several strips and dips the bread in the broth scooping some lobster onto it and giving some to Stiles. Each bite he takes is matched with a bite of what remains by Peter. Peter’s gaze is intense and poised, but Stiles can sense the motive beneath the surface. The longer they share a meal the more his shift is curling in his stomach and screaming for him to run. He stays seated for the full meal, but his toes tap and leg jostles until Peter steadies him. “Remain calm,” Peter says. “I won’t make any moves without your go ahead. If you can steady yourself, I can abate my temptation easier.” Peter feeds him a bite of squid ink crab tortellini with a shallow breath.

“Why does me being nervous change anything? Is it like a turn on or something? I’ve never really gotten it from your side. Most alphas don’t want to talk,” Stiles asks after swallowing.

“Sensory overload. It just taxes each sense that much more. I can’t not pay attention to everything you do. So, when you’re shaking, making extra noises, and letting of more types of chemical signals-”

“It’s harder to focus on remaining calm.” Stiles finishes.

“Yes.” Peter says and removes his hand from Stiles’s leg.

“I gotta say you picked the worst possible person to ask not to fidget.”

“Your ADHD.”

“You can tell?”

“I read about it. They put a lot in those files.”

“Great.”

“You’re probably lucky they do.”

“Why?” Stiles asks.

“It has a lot of alphas scared. Only people who want a challenge would pick you at this point. You’re basically a legendary catch, an unbreakable stallion. Most of the worst behaved going forwards will leave you alone after what you did to Kali and the one before the twins. What was his name again?”

“Jonas.” Stiles sets his jaw and grips the arm of his chair.

“German alpha, right? I hear he died last year, and Kali chose not to attend a choosing ceremony this year,” Peter states and then takes a bite for himself.

“Can we not talk about that year?”

“Very well, lets go back to eating,” Peter continues after a moment and Peter tilts Stiles’s chin up. “You should be proud of what you did that year.” Then after a pause he lifts another bite to Stiles’s mouth. Peter lowers his hand from Stiles’s chin and brushes his thumb lightly over the back of Stiles’s hand. A moment later it’s gone and somehow Stiles feels able to eat again. They finish out the rest of the meal in silence. Peter makes no moves to try for small talk and Stiles’s nerves settle out again. When he signals he’s done eating, Peter simply stands from his seat and ascends the stairs and disappears to a room on the third floor.

Stiles is left sitting alone looking down at his paper and adds more rules to the list.

  1. Don’t ask about Jonas.
  2. No locking doors of rooms I’m in.
  3. I must have access to the time and date upon request.
  4. No physical abuse.
  5. No deprivation of stimuli or social interactions.



Stiles finishes writing out what he can think of by nine thirty and then seeks out Peter upstairs. He knocks on the door next to the master bedroom and Peter opens the door quickly. He hands the sheet of pocket crinkled paper to Peter and walks to the bedroom and sits on the balcony beyond the sliding glass doors. He looks Peter joins him and hands the paper back a few minutes later.

Joining his rules are two of Peter’s own

  1. All meals will be fed to you (Stiles) by me (Peter).
  2. We will shower and sleep together. I may wash you personally with permission.



Stiles looks at the paper, looks back up and nods. “I’ll have trouble sleeping next to you though.”

“I can command it of you to sleep if necessary.”

Stiles fiddles his lips side to side and braces the paper on the railing. He scrawls out another rule:

  1. All “Alpha Commands” will be made upon my requests only and only to benefit my wellbeing.



Peter looks at it and chuckles. “You’re surprisingly pragmatic.”

“This isn’t my first time in an alpha’s home. I interned in a paralegal department during university. This is in no way professional. I didn’t even get to draw up paperwork or anything while I worked there. I mostly schlepped supplies and refreshments around. But, I saw paperwork drawn up a lot. I did my best, if not admittedly uninformed approximation of what I saw when I was working there,” Stiles says, punctuating his statement with a shrug.

“Regardless of what professionals will say I believe this will do us well for this week.”

“It’ll be more than a week. Most times my cycles last ten or more days. When I was fifteen… it lasted two weeks.”

“Then I suppose we should get some rest. We woke early for the ceremony.”

“Yeah, I could hit the sack right about now,” Stiles yawns and stretches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoy.  
> For future ease of tracking, starting next chapter I will be linking and posting an accompanying fic that will be specifically to track the negotiation and rules page. It will be multi-chaptered as a result of the updates and wanting to keep the rules unspoiled for future readers if they want it but also be something that can be referenced so readers don't have to work so hard at getting it. Also, it saves me from having to put the whole document awkwardly into any one chapter. :)  
> Will it be cringe? Yes, probably.  
> Will it be helpful to both the reader and me as a writer to make sure I'm not rewriting things for no reason? Also yes.  
> Enjoy,  
> XOXO Iru_Naru


	3. Choice

Stiles wakes up slowly to the bliss of his crotch rubbing against Peter’s own. At first, he doesn’t realize he’s gyrating against his heat mate. He’s still submerged beneath the heady warmth of the blankets and enveloped by the scent of the man next to him. The underwear between them is slick and drifts across his cock like the torturous silk that it is. 

Stiles opens his eyes to Peter’s half-lidded blue eyes greeting him. The challenging glare Peter usually sports has been softened by a light smile. “Enjoying our morning, are we?” Peter whispers. 

It jolts Stiles back into his skin and he uncouples their legs. He rolls out of bed and stumbles into the bathroom. He slams the door and turns on the shower. He slumps against the wall and grips himself hot and quick. He strokes in swift short motions playing the top of his cock mercilessly in his palm. He rests his head against the wall behind him and tries desperately not to think of Peter in the soft morning light. He finishes quickly the first time and can feel a rush as he starts again. It’s too sensitive, he’s roiling under his skin, but he can still smell the remnants of what Peter did the previous night in the now misty air of the bathroom. It beckons him forward. He can hear Peter’s leisurely breathless pants chasing after him from his station in the bed just beyond the door. In a host of a few more minutes, he’s finished again. 

He lays against the wall spent, for a moment, until Peter walks in naked and picks him up. Peter carries him to the shower and sits him on one of the white stools that rests beneath the shower head. Peter sits in front of him and picks up the bottle of body wash. He pours some out and presents his hands with a pause. “May I?”

“I can do it myself.” Stiles says and glances at the bottle. 

“Suit yourself,” Peter says and starts to scrub at his own chest. The white stripes on his skin disappear beneath the bubbles. 

Stiles picks up the bottle himself and is surprised that to find it heavy in his hand. Peter flashes a wry smile for such a short moment Stiles questions it even happened. He coats his hands and lathers it into his skin. The vanilla amber scent of the soap soaks into his skin. Stiles scrubs himself clean roughly, his nails dig into his own skin leaving quickly fading red marks. 

***

Sitting in Deucalion’s clothes was uncomfortable. They’re mostly scratchy. They smelled weird. All the woolen sweaters reeked of pine wood, bonfire, and whiskey. All the pants smelled too clean. 

It was stifling being in the lodge. Stiles spent most of the days dodging him to poor success. Deucalion took him out on the slopes almost as soon as they arrived. They’d skied for hours and Stiles had been exhausted by the time they’d gotten back inside.

Each time he’d fallen Deucalion would be next to him in a moment righting him. His hand was reassuring in the small of his back with each primary push forward, but Stiles was off balance for more reason than one. Deucalion’s grip over his as he was instructing him how to hold the ski poles was unnerving. It made his skin crawl and his inner wolf claw to the surface. It made it harder to focus on the compacting snow beneath him and the directions Deucalion was straining to supply him, over and over again. Deucalion’s smiles were cold. They resembled the ones Stiles had only seen on violent offenders. 

Every step closer together was another Stiles wanted to run away. He stayed still the first time Duec kissed him. It wasn’t his first time. He’d kissed girls before, even a guy in 10th grade, but this was different. His heat shrieked through his body and pushed him to kiss back. Each moment he remained still turned the thrill of it into a sinking weight crushing his guts. 

Deucalion pulled away with a smile that Stiles didn’t know how to place. “That wasn’t so bad was it?” 

Stiles squeaked in response. He did his best to smile. Deucalion pulled his sweater and shirt off and looked at him. “Shower with me,” Deucalion said red bleeding into his eyes. 

Stiles got up from the bedroom hearth immediately. He walked straight into the master bathroom and found himself standing naked beneath the lukewarm spray coming from the hose connected shower head. 

His skin heated when Deucalion’s fingers began to trace over the speckles on his back. Deucalion stood behind him. But, he felt Deucalion’s smile on his cheek as he stared straight ahead at the harsh cured wood of the shower. Stiles felt the fingers slip between his arms and his body and grip his chest and abs. “So many firsts to discover and re-discover. I wonder what obsessions of yours we will uncover this week.” Duec punctuated it with a kiss on his cheek. 

Stiles fled the shower the moment Deucalion had finished cleaning his body. 

“Don’t worry. It seems impossible now, but soon you’ll not only accept my hands on you; you’ll be begging me to adorn you with my attention. You all do.” 

Deucalion led him to the heat room at his request. Stiles fretted his fingers over his own skin for hours before blackness took him. 

***

It takes a while for him to notice his hands have been caught, stuck an inch above his skin. He looks up at Peter and takes his hands back. 

“As lovely a sight your body is in my shower, blood stains aren’t something my tile and shower chairs need.” Peter gazes down and Stiles sees pink specks on the shower chair beneath him. 

“Sorry.” 

“Where were you?” 

“Just another castle, wrapped in clothes that seep into mind and remind me where I’m not, in another foreign shower I’ll never forget.” Stiles stands and walks out of the shower. 

He walks down to the dining room and glares at the service staff member until he leaves through the kitchen’s back door. He pushes a table in front of the glass doorway and puts it with a chair from the corner. He grabs an omelet, covers it, and places it on the table before walking off. He finds his clothes in the hands of a worker in a washroom. “Burn them,” he says and turns around. 

Peter’s at the table dressed in more beach ware. A white cotton shirt with horizontal blue stripes stretches over his chest. The bottom most of the collar’s three buttons strains to remain in its place. The baby blue shorts he’s wearing are decorated with faded white waves. Stiles sits next to him. 

“It’s time for breakfast.” Stiles says and waits for Peter to start. There’s more food on the table now. Fruits and juices adjoin the omelet. He can smell pastries beneath another platter cover. 

He eats everything he’s offered and then looks off to the beach. “We should do something today. While I still can.” 

“What would you like to do?” 

“Something. Anything. I need to get clothes for my return home. Your housekeepers touched mine. I can’t wear them anymore.” 

“Is that so?”

“I’ll never get the smell out. The soap. The unrecognizable oils lingering in the cotton. I need something new.” Stiles says not looking Peter in the eye. 

“Okay, where would you like to go?”

“Somewhere nice. Something I’d never be willing to shop at myself.” 

“This sounds an awful lot like something you’d be getting after winning our bet. “

“Next week when I leave here triumphant you can look at me and appreciate how hot I look in an outfit you’ll hate to see leave your house. It’s just one more loss you can afford to risk, not that you think you’ll lose. Either way, I think you can find it in your heart to send me home with something to replace the lost wages from being here.” 

“Your tongue is perhaps your most dangerous feature,” Peter hums and looks his body up and down. 

“That’s saying a lot considering. I’ve grown a lot since my first choosing ceremony.” 

“Is it? Your mouth doesn’t restrain itself, unlike your claws. No amount of muscle matters if you won’t use it.” Peter pulls out the paper and slides it over the table to him. 

Stiles reads it. 

C. All physical injuries you inflict will be on me or not at all

"What the hell is this?”

“This week, I can handle the pain you can’t talk about.” 

“What kind of masochistic bullshit is that?” Stiles stands and stomps up the stairs heading for the bedroom.

“I won’t discuss my reasoning, and in any event it’s on the page now. You may relent at any time, otherwise abide by it.” Peter says pulls out his phone and pursues him leisurely. 

Stiles finds the most abandoned clothes he can and puts them on. In a few short minutes, they’re in the front seat of “one of” Peter’s “ _Shelby Cobras_ ”. A few minutes later, he’s in an Italian inspired boutique somewhere off the main drag in Newport Beach.

The store just opened or seems to have. The woman behind the counter seems tired like her sleep was disrupted recently. “Welcome to my store,” She says. Her blonde curls hang loose along her neck and she’s wearing a fearsome black slip dress and killer red heels.

“Thank you for your help, Erica.”

“Anything for my most loyal customer.” She smiles, and Stiles laughs. 

“Your customer service voice is amazing. But how tired you are makes it seem like you’d rather be eating us than be here,” Stiles says.

“Where’d you find this one?” Erica sneers.

"He’s a limited edition. Guaranteed to insult anyone he encounters,” Peter jeers and ushers Stiles further into the store. 

“So, he’s only slightly less intolerable than you are.”

“You’d be surprised how demanding he is.”

“Only this week I bet.” She walks over to Stiles and walks around him. “Have you taken measurements?” 

“No. But, I’m sure we can have them done for you in a moment. Hand me the measuring tape?”

Erica tosses the tape to Peter. “Stay still.” Peter’s hands wrap around his waist, shoulders, and chest quickly. He crouches and measures his legs and just about every other place Stiles didn’t know was important. He then rattles a bunch of numbers off to Erica who writes them down. 

“How long do we have?” She asks.

“Today? However long he wants to look around. But he needs them by Monday.” 

“I’ll get some samples out. Any preferences?” She looks at Stiles.

“Paisley.” Stiles returns looking her dead in the eye. 

“Paisley?” Peter asks.

“You have anything worth looking at in it?” Stiles asks.

“I have beautiful everything,” Erica says and then disappears. 

Stiles takes a blue and white think knit sweater. He holds it to his chest and turns to Peter. 

“The gradient makes it look like a cloudy sky,” Peter says.

Stiles looks down and back up. “Is that a bad thing?” 

“Only if it’s made of poly blended fabric.”

“Don’t even think about disgracing the name of my store,” Erica shouts from a back room. 

“It says alpaca on the tag.” 

“In that case I like it.” 

Stiles tries it on. It fits him a bit loose, but Peter’s hum doesn’t sound like he’s retching so he figures it’s a good choice. He takes it off and puts it on the counter. 

Erica comes out a bit later with several swatches of fabric for him to test. He flips through them looking for something, anything, that he likes. Midway through a surprisingly deep stack of thirty or more paisley samples he stops. He pulls out a soft two layered fabric with gold embroidery on the outward side laid over an inky blue, black, and purple base. He pulls it out and lays it on the table. “This is it.” Peter looks over and stares at it silently. 

“Bold,” Erica says from beyond the counter. She pulls on its edges. “It has some good give to it. I’ll cut it to the dimensions you gave me, and I’ll have it ready soon. I wish I could pin it to you, but I don’t think that’ll be possible this week.” 

“I can do the chalking after the preliminary cuts if you’d like to deliver the preliminary product to my home.” Peter says. “What color pants?” 

“With this? Either a very deep navy or black slack.” 

“We’ll take one of each,” Peter tells her. “Charge my account for your work. And this as well.” He points to the cloudy after noon sweater. 

Stiles picks it up off the counter and let’s Peter guide him to the door. “Thanks Erica.” 

“I expect photos to come with the chalking and I want to see how it fits once I send the finished garment as well. My portfolio could use some more exciting pieces. The rich snobs around here always ask for stuffy _professional_ designs.”

“I’ll email them. Thanks for opening early for us.” With Peter’s last words, they stumble out onto the street. Stiles grips the sweater in his arms. 

“So uh, where to next?”

“More shopping or something else?”

“Something else, I don’t know what’s to do around here. What do you like to do?” Stiles walks back towards the car. 

“I’m more of a socialite. It’s not the best week for it. Most of my _peers_ are hopelessly overcome at the moment. Charming them while eviscerating their social merit wouldn’t be much of a challenge. Maybe we can find something quieter to do.” 

“Are there any good places to walk around? I could use some exercise. It’d be a good way to waste some time.”

“Sure, there are some lesser used trails we could walk or bike around. We’d have to go back to the house to pick some food depending on how long we’d be out.”

“That sounds fine.”

“Biking or walking?”

“Walking. I could use a good shift. I haven’t gotten to go on a run in a long while. Even with the parks in my area, it’s just not the same.”

“I wouldn’t be able to join you. I’ll carry the water and other supplies instead.”

“Why not?”

“Some abilities, impossible as it may seem, can in fact, be stolen from you.” Peter says. He twists the key and sets the Cobra into motion.

Peter takes longer than Stiles would’ve wanted to get everything together. Stiles’s patience is thin by the time they get to the trails Peter takes him to. His hands are clammy. He knows it’s a risk. Running, here, now, with Peter so close by. But he can’t stop himself. As soon as they’ve turned the second time, he’s feverishly shrugging out of Peter’s clothes and shifting. He gasps as his bones creak, crack, and snap into new positions. The process leaves him panting. He fights the urge to howl. Peter won’t look at him when he shifts. He nips at Peter’s calves and races off into the brush.

He lopes around for a while just breathing in the world around him. He chases the high that’s building in his muscles and flooding his body. Stiles loses himself. He fails to notice himself traipsing across the path past Peter over and over again. Eventually, he slows into a more leisurely trot. He circles the space absently until he notices what keeps drawing him back. Anxious pain radiates through Peter’s scent as he trudges the path that Stiles can’t help but orbit.

It takes him a while longer but eventually he falls into step beside Peter. Not soon after he shifts back. Peter hands him his clothes. He pulls on the shorts and studies Peter’s face. “What did you mean when you said some abilities can be stolen from you? I know that alpha-hood can be stolen, but something tells me that’s not what you mean.”

Peter rubs the right side of his face and takes a drink of water. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

"Well, you reek of anxiety. I’m guessing that’s not a normal state for you. So, we can do this now or we can do this later. But, I’m gonna get it out of you.”

“Another game to play.” Peter smiles and starts walking again.

They don’t stop again until Peter guides them to an outcropping. Peter unslings the backpack from his shoulder. He sets it down on a rock and starts pulling out snacks. They eat in silence. Peter smiles, eyes intent, but doesn’t start a conversation. The food is fine, nothing he couldn’t get at the organic market down the street from his apartment.

“Thanks.”

“What for?” Peter asks.

“Not being so… alpha-y.”

“I’m not.”

“Not what?” Stiles asks confused.

“Acting unlike an alpha.”

“You’re acting unlike any alpha I’ve ever met.”

“Stiles,” Peter looks off to the horizon. “Most of these alphas you met, they didn’t grow up like I did, in a stable family-based pack. Alphas are supposed to be leaders, support systems, guardians. It used to be passed down families in a matriarchal and patriarchal lineage a lot more than it does now. My father was an alpha, he passed it down to my sister before he died. She practically raised me. Her stifling motherly instincts were cumbersome and even cruel at times, but she tried to protect us. Alphas should be kind. I do my best to do right by those under my care when I can. This includes you for now.”

Stiles looks out at the water as he chews on another grape. He waves his hand, “So, like, all the rest of them; they’re just like total random assholes. I know I don’t have a representative sample size, but I’m fairly sure only meeting like two decent alphas out of eleven isn’t just bad luck.”

“Other than Deucalion, none of the other alphas you met gained their status through non-violent means. Once upon a time, he was a better man. But many awful things have happened since I was your age. Pack stability requires good consuls. I’m afraid that our current leaders are less in maintaining wellbeing than they are the balance. Eventually, I assume this will cause a problem so great that there will be total upheaval of the system we’ve fallen into.”

“So, you’re blaming it on bad politics.”

“Mmmm, more so malicious mismanagement,” Peter says. “The contingencies of humans that reject druidism have some known terrorists. They’ve worked hard to disrupt the peace. Deucalion and I have both had our paths warped by people who refuse to feel the pull of the earth.”

“In what ways?”

“Maybe another time.”

“You can’t just say shit like that and then stop.”

“But I can. Needless to say, as a result of such actions you’ve been greeted with a far harsher structure than you deserve.” Peter bites into an apple. Then he offers it to Stiles. They lock eyes for a moment before either of them move again. Against his better judgment, Stiles bites into it. Warmth coils in his belly. Peter smiles and Stiles feels his cheeks heat. He breaks their eye contact. “Provision is one of the few important traditions we still have.”

“There are other ones that don’t make it suck to be an omega.”

“There were. Not that you can find them outside the personal collections of alphas from long lineages and druids.”

“Like what? Can I read through these books.”

“I can have some printed off. I digitized all the books in my family’s supernatural library when I was sixteen. Provision is one of many things that benefit omegas. It’s said that an omega can rise to alpha status if their bond to their mate is strong enough and their will as strong. Though that may just be a legend. Also, there’s the matter of the strength you have during heat.”

“That’s because of alphas?” Stiles asks and clenches his fists.

Peter takes Stiles’s hands in his own and twines their fingers together. “No, but you’re unbreakable this week. Your body is was born to make a choice. Omegas are born to ensure the cycle continues. Betas have to band together to topple a tyrant. An omega can fight an undeserving alpha and win. Or they can choose to join with them and make the pack stronger with their own resolve.”

“This benefits me how?” Stiles asks. He leans in at the touch.

“For one week out of the year you have the power to overturn a regime. Imagine what that kind of focus could achieve if properly applied.”

“That doesn’t give me equal treatment,” Stiles’s says. His throat constricts and his claws creep out.

“Then make, a choice,” Peter hisses.

“How am I supposed to choose when all I can do is focus on what move you’re going to make next and if I really want you to or not?” He pulls his hands free of Peter’s grasp.

“Decide if the alpha you’re with is capable of helping you achieve your goals. And if you deem them unworthy of their status, take it for yourself. Better the pack. Take your power and exert it to change the world around you.”

“Kill, you mean.” Stiles stands up.

“Shift the balance. Move the cycle forward.”

“And if I deem you unworthy?”

“I’d have to survive, as I always have,” Peter says, not moving from his seat on the rocky outcropping.

Stiles walks away. He pulls off his clothes and starts to shift. “Let’s go. This conversation isn’t going anywhere.”

***

Stiles was nearly drunk on all the pheromones in the room. Ethan and Aiden have been deflowering the other omegas for hours. He hasn’t left the window since it started. His body was paralyzed, rolling through waves of lust he could only just manage to sate with his own hand. They hadn’t made him do anything yet, but he could feel himself slipping. The door was shut, but on the far side of the room was a ventilation shaft that connected to the room Aiden utilized. It’d been hours of torturous lust filling his nose, over and over again. It’d been hours of hearing Ethan pulling sounds from Danny that made Stiles want to rip their hearts from their chests.

Danny was Ethan’s only other choice. They barely parted since Danny was escorted to the room. The only time that they stopped was for lunch. It was spent with Ethan feeding them both. But Stiles had to stop letting him. He started to pull from the plates himself. The taste of their cum was still on Ethan’s hands and he had barely managed to keep himself from attacking them when it flooded his mouth with the first bite of steak.

Their words drifted through his mind hazily as the sounds pulled him back under once more.

“We’re doing this so that people don’t have to sit through this shit anymore.”

“You’re special. If you want to you could change things. But, not if you keep doing this. You need to make a choice.”

“You have to choose someone eventually Stiles. Why not choose us, choose me? Omegas can gain access to the council through the alpha they first mate with.”

“If you just go along with it this year you’ll never have to deal with this situation again unless you want to.”

“We want to free omegas from this process.”

He rioted against the words repeatedly. _Their plan is just a band aid. It doesn’t fix anything. It just steals the choice out from under people without the same pretense of importance. We’re still not choosing to be here._ Stiles whimpered when Ethan’s lips landed on his. He screamed when he had to push Ethan off himself. He cried could no longer remember why he was doing this to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed. Don't even really know what to say about this chapter. 
> 
> The companion fic can be found here:  
> [ Levies And Litigations ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27411220/chapters/66998866)   
> It is labeled by chapter it is relevant to. This way I can keep it all looking nice and y'all can have an easier time keeping track. It probably won't look nice unless someone knows how to make a thing look like its on a crumple piece of paper. If you do hit me up I guess. 
> 
> Iru_Naru XOXO Peace


	4. I Insist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm starting work on the Steter Secret Santa this year as well. I hope you guys enjoy this :) I'm going to keep chugging through this as best I can. I've really enjoyed this and as always if you guys feel there's any need for additional tagging etc please keep me posted with what you notice.

When they arrive back at Peter’s oversized villa Stiles stalks his way back into the rec room and starts in on a game of Donkey Kong. He stays there jumping, ducking, and climbing his way through the levels. He’s met with little success. He can’t focus and every time he gets hit, it just feeds his fury until he just winds up back at the starting screen. He plays the levels doggedly but makes no headway on progressing through the beginning levels. He moves on to a racing game but has about as much success.

Peter comes in when Stiles has resigned himself back to Galaga.

“Is this really how you want to spend the rest of the day?” Peter says. He leans in the doorway, arms crossed loosely in front of his chest.

“No, but I can’t concentrate. I should have remembered to stuff my meds in my pockets before those guards escorted me to the ceremony.”

“I took the liberty of having your belongings brought here. Washed hands and sterilized gloves were used per my orders.”

“Great. Thanks.” Stiles turns back to the game.

Peter makes to walk forward but stops himself mid step. “Did I overstep?”

Stiles hunches over the controls more. He moves the joystick in faster choppier motions and slaps the fire button harder.

“Should I leave?” Peter asks.

“No,” Stiles says. “Just stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“This weird prodding thing you’re doing. If I want to tell you something, I’ll tell you.”

“You say that as if you’re not the type to never say another word to me.”

“Tch,” Stiles responds. “Any chance you’ll show me those books?”

“You can start in my study. Two doors down. I’ll leave it unlocked for you.” Peter says and exits the room fully. Stiles hears keys jingle and a latch clunk. Then Peter’s footsteps retreat down the stairs and a muted scuffing sound precedes the house emptying of all organic noise.

Stiles sighs. He walks out of the rec room and investigates the study. It’s surprisingly small. There’s a dark oak desk centered at the back of the room. Beyond it is a couple of matching shelves and a picture in an old, burnt frame between them.

The left side is taken over by a long burgundy sofa and an end table. The right is occupied by another bookshelf and a smart board. He looks up to see a projector set as far from it as possible. The desk is clean, but markings on the wood make it obvious that the laptop has been stowed somewhere. He tries the drawers, but they’re all locked.

He leaves it alone. Then he scans the bindings for whatever is looks oldest. It takes him a while, but he eventually pulls out a haggard spined brown leather tome. The embossing has worn off entirely making the title illegible.

Stiles sits on the couch and opens it gingerly. The book is written in a soft faded black ink. The penmanship greets him kindly. He shuts it almost immediately after reading the title. “Hale Family Lineage: A Generational Recollection Of Traditions.”

He places it on the end table behind him and a clunking sound has him flailing to catch whatever is falling to the ground. Eventually, his hands find a cool tablet on the ground between the couch and the wooden stand.

He presses the home button and is surprised to find it opens to the home screen. He looks at it and finds that other than preset apps the only thing on it are several streaming apps. None of the profiles reveal anything interesting about Peter’s entertainment preferences. They’re all irritatingly blank profiles named Guest.”

He turns to a news app and watches replays of the events. Several clips of hormone drunk Omegas flit across the screen. The news anchors are unkind as their respective alphas escort them out of whichever banquet halls they’re occupying.

***

Theo had to be the most annoying alpha Stiles was ever claimed by. His presence was overbearing. Each sentence was another covetous innuendo. Each suggestion was another push, another pull in some direction to get a reaction.

Theo’s reckless agitations had him on the verge of lunacy by the night of the banquet.

“I’m not going,” Stiles slurred.

“Yes, you will. And you’ll answer every question they ask you.” Theo strokes his thumb on Stiles’s chin.

“Why?” Stiles grabs Theo’s wrist and turns his head away.

“Because, if you don’t, you’ll never get to plug for your mission. I’m not going to bring you to any other event. This is your one chance.”

“It’s mid heat week! I can barely think!” Stiles yelled and punched a hole in the sheet rock of the closet wall.

Theo walked behind him and in one swift motion clasped a gold chrome collar with studs on the inside around his neck. Stiles tore at it, but the metal wouldn’t give.

“Stiles, you should consider what you really want. I know what I’m after. Do you?”

“This.” Stiles pulled at it harshly. “Changes nothing.” The studs dug into his neck as he yanked at the metal to try to dislodge it and free himself. He started to shift and immediately began seizing on the ground. The device pulsed harsh electricity through his body. He found himself again a while later still laying on the floor of the closet.

“Finish dressing. We have a big night ahead of us.” Theo gave him a grin and walked out of the bedroom.

Stiles rubbed softly at the rapidly healing burnt skin. He groaned softly and put on the deep green suit. He flubbed the tie knot on purpose and walked downstairs.

“That looks great on you Stiles. I knew you’d clean up nice.” Theo said to him once he sat down in the foyer of the Victorian plantation style South Carolina house. Theo walked behind him, fixed the tie, and started massaging him. Stiles could barely keep his claws in check as he fought through the impulses. The more he curved away, the deeper Theo’s hands would dig into his upper back. His eyes flickered between their normal amber and the honey brown of his inner wolf. Each eruption of anger was met with a quelling tingling sourced at his neck.

He watched forlorn as a regal looking table was carried into the front hall. Two plush chairs were placed behind it. Eventually, wires led from the table to the retrofitted wall sockets. Two microphones were placed on it and he watched and listened as several betas worked together on the sound check and finished the rest of the preparatory work.

“Can you tell what I changed about my outfit?” Theo asked a few minutes before the reporters were let in.

Stiles turned his head and looked Theo up and down, but the tight black suit and white shirt looked the same as they did earlier in the evening.

“You’re using the wrong sense.” Theo whispered and straightened Stiles’s collar. Then he leaned in and ran his nose up Stiles’s neck.

Stiles rose from his seat urgently and put a step between them. Stiles closed his eyes and did his best to reel in his unraveled focus. He sniffed the air. His eyes were bright when he finally caught his own scent drifting from Theo’s body. “What are you?”

“Stiles, I think you know. You’re getting good at this. It’s why I chose you for my experiment.”

“Those are-”

“Mine. I had your stuff brought here.”

“Take them off.”

“I will. Later.”

Stiles balled his fist and lurched forward to Theo. Electricity prickled light on his neck. Through his discomfort, Stiles fumbled for purchase on Theo’s belt. His hands were caught in Theo’s death grip before he could open the clasp. “Careful Stiles. You wouldn’t want to take us to a place you may not be able to stop. What would the reporters say? No doubt they can hear you from just beyond the door. Even a beta’s hearing can pick up on what you’re doing in here.”

Stiles turned his head around, stricken. A tear fell from his eye before he could blink it back. His shoulders slumped and he felt Theo release him. He pulled his hands back and sat down at the table. “Call them in.”

Theo sat next to him and waved at his beta, Tracy. She went to the door and opened it. Not long after the rooms were swarming with Theo’s guest. Stiles could barely breathe. Before he knew it, the interview had begun. He rambled through the questions with difficulty. Theo was silent the entire time he was struggling.

“Mr. Stilinski, do you think you’ll be breaking your abstinence this year?” One reporter asked. This earned Theo getting up from the table and leaving.

“No,” he answered once Theo had slipped up the stairs into another section of the mansion. “I still believe the system as it exists is a recipe for sexual assault. I couldn’t consent as it is. My body’s imperative robs me of that choice. If I weren’t so determined I’d probably take just about anyone, regardless of who they are as a person. Your partner should be more than just a body. Or, at least if you want… there should be the potential there.” It took him several minutes to get the answer out. It was so much easier when he practiced it in the mirror the day before. He’s split in half.

Part of his mind was there, in the room, trying to answer. But, the other half was upstairs. The other half of him was trained on Theo. He could hear through all the feet shuffling and petitioning reporters what had taken place in the second floor in the farthest room of the house’s east wing. Theo was undressing. The click of the belt. The scrape of the button coming undone. The zipper rang. It beckoned his senses beyond his physical location.

“Can you hear me Stiles?” Theo’s voice cut through Stiles’s sentence and stopped his ramblings short.

—

“So you can. Good. I want you to hear me. Do you know what I’m doing?”

Stiles twitched his ears and sniffed the air. He knew what was coming, the hectic scents of horny betas settled to the floor as the Theo’s scent finally travelled to his nose. It was faint, suppressed by the distance and noise, but the twisted arousal was clear. Stiles could feel his hands grip the table the moment Theo’s first gasp assailed him. Fighting to keep his speech going through the faint arrhythmic moans was like Chinese water torture. Every time he got to a point his train of thought fell into disarray as another bevy of desire disrupted his senses.

When Theo finally came, he was loud. Stiles stood up. All his attempts at making his argument for omega rights ceased. His vision went red. Contempt boiled through him. Stiles heard soft fabric rub against the hair on Theo’s abs. “I’m going to put them back on now. They smelled like you. God, your heat scent is like heroine. I’ll see you soon.”

Stiles clenched the table and straightened his back. He looked down at the wood beneath his hands. A wretched grin spread across his face. He pulled off the suit jacket and turned his attention back to the reporters. “You know I have to hand it to Theo. He’s by far the most impressive alpha I’ve met yet. I hate him perhaps most of all. He does everything he can to make me snap. The problem is, unlike his toys. I can’t be broken.”

Stiles shifted just enough for his eyes to glow. He felt the power surge through him. He raised his hands up in the air and balls them into fists. Then without a moment’s hesitation, he slammed them down into the sturdy aged wood and shattered the desk. The splinters flew stinging his face. The crowd of party goers erupted, and he felt relief as the reporters scattered out the plantation house’s front doors. He roared. His claws slipped from his nail beds and pain roiled within him. His world went black.

***

Stiles gives up his lost cause and goes to Peter outside. “Where’d they put my stuff.”

“It’s in all airtight vacuum sealed bags in the heat room. Second floor. Third door on the left. Center hall.”

“Alright.” Stiles shuffles off and finds his things. He undoes the seal and rifles through his things for his ADHD meds. It’s rough in his mouth when he swallows them. The after taste from the pill dissolving on his tongue while he waited for enough saliva to build up to down it was awful.

He shoves the bottle in his pocket and closes the bag. He shuffles back down the stairs. He pauses at the last step and looks out to Peter relaxing on the beach. He has a book in his hand. His pink button-down shirt is open. It folds loosely around the sides of his chest. Small tufts of hair lay across Peter’s tanned chest softly rippling in the breeze. Stiles snaps his jaw back up when Peter looks at him through the glass and smiles.

Stiles digs a pen and the paper out of his front pocket. Stiles licks his lips. Then he goes back outside. He sits down next to Peter and trains his eyes on the paper.

“What should the different phrases be? They need to be...”

“Distinct?” Peter eventually finishes for him. Peter puts a marker in the page, snaps it shut, and turns to the table.

“Yeah.”

“Let’s keep it simple.”

“How simple.”

“Very simple.” Peter extends his hands to take the pen and paper. “May I?”

Stiles stares at Peter’s hands a moment before meeting Peter’s eyes. “Sure.”

Peter takes the pen and hums. “How about... ‘Peter, please. I need this.’ Obviously, it would be contextual. I wouldn’t try to trick you into saying that and then take advantage. It would be a breach of contract.”

“That’s too... general. I’d be more comfortable if it were more specific.”

“What do you suggest?” Peter says, his brow twitches up and he leans in.

Stiles gulps. He goes to take the pen back, but he meets Peter’s hand instead. He pulls it back and thrusts it down into his lap. Stiles ducks his head down.

“What about ‘I need relief?’” Peter fields.

“‘Kiss me.’”

“What?”

“The first request. It should be the phrase ‘kiss me’ as a demand. It would be a standalone.”

“Isn’t that generic?”

“I’ve never asked for it before.”

“Would just kissing then be the full act?”

“No. I’d want more.”

“Okay. I can’t say this will help your chances.”

“Concern yourself with your own odds.” Stiles snipes and then flees for the water.

When Stiles returns, a waste bin has materialized and there’s a towel awaiting him on the beach table. It’s soft and smells new. He wraps himself in it and walks to the house. He dusts his feet off and then sits across from Peter who’s turned on a program about ancient art styles on the far wall. Peter picks up a remote. The voice covering the significance of the line structure halts.

“Are you ready to eat?”

Stiles nods.

“Okay.” Peter slides over the paper and smiles. The first line he’d metered out is filled with Peter’s overly proper handwriting. “ _Kiss me.”_ Stiles nods. Then he scans down. 

D) We shall _both_ feed each other. 

Stiles’s mind goes blank. He doesn’t stop looking at the page until he hears Peter chuckle. He looks up. Peter’s smile is soft. Stiles’s remembers how he’d looked in the morning. Naught, but a handful of moments later the edges return and the memory fades. 

“Don’t look so surprised. We both like luxury after all,” Peter says. 

“I just- no one’s ever asked me to before.”

“I do love hearing that I’m original.”

“I’ll bet.” Stiles says. “Alright, Let’s do this.” 

“After you. I insist.” 

Stiles’s hand starts shaking the moment he begins feeding Peter. His fingers feel clumsy as they grip even the simplest of foods to present them. He can barely aim his hand. Whenever he gets close enough; Peter moves to meet him. His skin prickles up and down his face. He focuses his eyes anywhere he can to avoid Peter’s eyes. Peter’s ears, hair line, chin. 

Each time Peter’s lips graze over Stiles’s fingertips his eyes snap to Peter’s lips. It makes the shaking worsen. Each bite earns a Stiles little sound of delight from the man across from him. Each bite pulls Stiles forwards. Whenever Peter finishes a bite he smiles. Stiles’s body inches closer with each tender caress of Peter’s lips. They drag purposefully over his skin. Stiles knows Peter’s doing it on purpose. They drain the air from his chest, each consecutive breath shallows more. Halfway through Peter’s plate Stiles misses a grab with his left hand. He looks over to it and sees his own abandoned one next to it. Stiles realizes he hasn’t eaten anything. He hasn’t even tried. He hasn’t even thought of it. His lungs are rattling in his chest. He can’t steady himself. He drops the remaining half of a finger sandwich from his right. His arms go limp and he collapses a foot backwards into his chair rails. 

Peter has a glass to Stiles’s own lips not a moment later. He tips up Stiles’s chin and gets him to swallow down some water. “You did better than I expected.” 

“What. The hell. Was that?”

“I never figured out a word for it.” Peter says. “Never needed one. There’s probably a word for it somewhere.”

“You seriously don’t know?”

“Would you have believed whatever information I _might_ have been able to offer, even if I had warned you?”

“Maybe. I- I’d probably do my own research anyway.” Stiles says begrudgingly.

“Then what does it matter?” 

“Because you knew it would happen?”

Peter grins and wipes his own mouth. “You did better than I did my first time. Though, only in one certain way.” 

“Which way is that?” Stiles asks and straightens in the chair. 

“Time. You fed me hors d’oeurves for nearly fifteen minutes. However, the rate was agonizingly slow.”

“At least we both suffered.”

“Was it really that bad?”

“Like being swarmed by hornets,” Stiles replies.

“Time to rattle the nest and return the favor I suppose,” Peter says.

The tacky anxiety subsides when he starts eating. The normal heady feeling of being fed simmers down into a glow that spreads to his extremities. So, he eats. He eats until his mind clears. He eats until his body stops feeling weak. 

When they finish Stiles just feels warm. He feels tired. He lets Peter carry him upstairs when asked. Peter brings Stiles into the bathroom and places him on the tiles of the shower. Stiles steadies himself on the hand bar and peels out of the borrowed shorts. 

They wash up and Stiles is nearly asleep when Peter joins him in bed. He drifts off to the sound of Peter’s murmurs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also: I'm considering getting a Beta if anyone is interested. Mostly because I want to make sure that the pacing of certain scenes is like... how I hear it when I type it out. IDK tell me if you're interested I guess. Not sure if you can DM on Ao3 but ya know it is what it is. 
> 
> Be well, stay safe and healthy.  
> XOXO Iru_Naru


	5. Grasping At Smoke

Stiles’s dreams taunt him. Men and women rush through his field of vision; each one promises less and demands more than the last. Hands grab at his body. Desperate, vile, heat and pleasure surge through him over and over and over again. Mouths suck at his skin and draw taught his overstimulated limbs. He coils and recoils endlessly in loops of memories. He’s carried limp through scene after scene of languorous sexual and physical toil.

Each world of exquisite exhaustion and hateful lust sweep through him until they blend. His mind is awash with pain. With each moment his terror grows, and a dark figure grows in the background. Peter conjures himself forward to the center. The rest of his tormentors dissipate. Peter blows a kiss of white smoke.

Stiles wakes up in a panic. His eyes flit open, bright. His claws are stuck steadfast in Peter’s arms. His breath comes in shallow short inharmonious puffs. He fights to get free, but he caught. Peter’s atop Stiles. He is pinning Stiles’s legs to the bed by entwining their legs and adjoining them at the ankles. Desperately Stiles bites at Peter, he strikes repeatedly, until his fangs draw purchase in Peter’s collar bone. The bone crunches in his mouth.

The hot taste of blood grounds him directly back to the room. He gasps and gags on it. He coughs. He sputters it out into the darkened room. Eventually, his body slows, and his shift slowly fades. When it does, he becomes acutely aware of everything. He’s slick and sticky everywhere. Sweat clings to his legs and back. His chest is worse. It’s coated in all manner of fluids and he doesn’t know which is worst. The sleeping shorts he’d put on earlier in the night were nowhere to be found.

He hears the crack of Peter’s body stitching itself back together. His attention finally pulls itself back outwards. Peter’s above him, breathing heavy. His body is rubbing firmly against Stiles at all points and he’s just so warm. He sees Peter’s mouth open above him. Stiles stiffens at the thought of the close-cropped beard against his skin

A moment later, Stiles surges upwards and locks himself in a bruising kiss. His gaze is far off. His eyes are open wide but unfocused. Peter’s eyes are wide looking at him. Peter groans and his arms slip from Stiles’s biceps. Another moment later and Peter wrenches himself away and ascends from the bed. Stiles moves to pursue him. Red eyes glow back at him and he feels his own fade.

“Stop,” Peter demands. A command doesn’t bulldoze Stiles like he expects. But hearing Peter sobers him, all the same. He sits back down on the bed.

The room is cloaked in shadow. Light is afforded them by neither the windows nor the glass door. The moon is absent. The only light is the dim glow of a phone that hasn’t relocked itself fully from when it was displaced during his episode. The light comes on, it’s dimmed, but seeing the mess on Peter’s chest floods him with guilt.

He’s up not a moment later and is on the sliding door in a flash. He rips it open and is off the terrace in an instant. His paws hit the sand and Stiles takes off. He circles towards the front of the house and sees a massive figure plummet to the ground.

He runs for the woods.

His breath ratchets up again. He submerges himself in the pines.

_The Sun, the Moon, and the Truth. The Sun, the Moon, and the Truth. The Sun, the Moon, and the Truth. The Sun, the Moon, and the Truth._

Stiles repeats it countless times as he flees through the underbrush. He can feel the presence hot on his tail as he roots through the fallen trees and mosses of the coastal woodlands. Satomi had taught him how to manage it. She had taken one look at him after he’d returned from Deucalion and started teaching him coping skills.

Step one is focus. So, he focuses on the mantra. Step two is to immerse himself in his senses. He does everything he can to feel the world around him. Shifting helps. The scents, the sounds, the different sight, it all lends to change the order of his mind. Step three is to regulate his breathing. He almost always fails; this time isn’t much different. She taught him endless ways to do it all. Each time he fails he tries again.

The dreams are the hardest. Stiles can’t fend them off or see the signs coming. He can’t take medication to stem the bleeding in his mind. Suddenly, each time he’s just in their grasps. He can’t escape them, and they know it.

His heat always makes it worse. The sensations flood through him. The emotions come on stronger. Hormones make remembering it’s a dream harder. They’re more intense. They change it from being caught in quicksand to being affected by kanima venom. Each time he’s frozen, paralyzed, but acutely aware of every sensation inflicted upon him. The shame that washes through him magnifies tenfold.

Part of what keeps him running is the humiliation. He can’t outrun it. The feeling of stupidity that comes along with being unable to remain calm. The frustration at the guilt. The knowing he doesn’t deserve it.

He runs away anyway. Each branch underfoot is one branch further from the pain of remembering. Each step is one step further from the disgust at the feeling of sweat, cum, and blood coating his skin. The dirt and cool night air scrubs it all off; the terror and the grime abate. 

He doesn’t catch the scent until he calms. Peter’s out here too.

He’s somewhere lurking in the woods. He catches it on a downdraft. He turns back to Peter’s house.

He trots back quickly.

A massive body is rustling its way through the foliage. He can’t see it. His hackles rise. He stops and looks around.

There’s no sign of whatever it is. He howls and waits. A while later her hears his howl returned, several far-off calls resound. But, then a loud rumbling growl signals nearby. He resumes his return, thinking better than waiting out in the open of the forest where blind spots abound.

When he’s almost out of the woods and back to the edge of the road he sees a dark shadow leap over to the top of the building and disappear over the other side. He lopes to the back door and shifts back to human form. He slides open the door and creeps in carefully. He listens for breathing, but only Peter’s rhythm comes to him. He makes his way back to the bedroom and knocks before entering.

“Peter, may I come in?”

“Yes, please do. I’m glad you returned, willingly.”

“Honesty? I appreciate it. I’m a bit surprised though.”

“On account of you mauling me?” Peter opens his arms wide. “I’m hardly so easily discouraged.”

“If it helps it wasn’t personal.”

“It felt a bit personal.”

“Well, it wasn’t. But I am sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be. It was a part of the deal, right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says and scratches his head. “What say we get cleaned up?”

“Excellent suggestion.”

***

The next morning Stiles has way too much energy. There’s immense amount of pressure bursting through every fiber of his being. He can hardly contain it. He does everything he can to avoid being too close to Peter. Peter’s glances never meet Stiles’s eyes. Stiles can only catch the glances whenever his half-lidded daze lifts long enough to see Peter struggling to rise above it himself.

Peter struggles to do yoga on the beach. For an hour Stiles mirrors him from a distance to maintain some control. It’s a waste, rather than holding his focus; Stiles’s mind keeps wandering off mid-pose. He keeps locking himself in extensions. When the tug of his muscle’s hits he flinches inwards and regains the ability to continue.

It isn’t until half past noon that Peter makes any kind of move. He lifts out of a full wheel and strides across the sand.

Finally, the self-restraint and quiet repose breaks. “Stiles.”

“Hmmm?”

“I would very much like to massage you,” Peter says. His voice is low and thick.

It sends Stiles’s body reeling. He can’t fight off the images forming in his head. His face goes warm and his shoulders slack.

Stiles collapses. When he sits up, he immediately runs a hand over his face and through his hair. Tingling erupts in his fingers and leaps to his feet and creeps up his arms. “What would you do? I’m not good with…”

“Your back, I’d massage your back. I have a massage table in the basement. I can move it to the roof if you’d like.”

“I don’t know.” Stiles leers.

“Anytime you need me to back off I will.”

“If it’s on the roof, then fine.”

“Okay, come with me.” Peter leads Stiles back into the house down a hallway and down a set of stairs set behind a door. Peter walks into a room at the base of the stairs flicks on a light and lifts a rather large white massage table.

“I regularly hire someone to do this to me.” He says as he rests it on its side and collapses its legs. “But this week is about you.”

He finishes. Then he picks it back up and ushers Stiles back up the stairs. When they get to the top floor Peter leads Stiles down an unexplored hallway and up another set of door-hidden stairs.

When they get to the roof Stiles is nearly heaving. Each breath feels like he’s sucking in water. He stalls at the doorway. He opens the door. The bright light floods his eyes. 

***

When he finally escaped Jonas’s compound, Stiles recoiled from the light. His lungs choked on the pollen. The chilly German, spring, afternoon took a sledgehammer to his mental order. 

Stiles shrunk to the ground and balled up in the doorway. He hid his face and boxed his arms over his head and ears. Every sense assailed him. His eyes flooded and overfilled continuously. His breaths came in hot and fast.

However, no one came for him until long after he had recovered. By the time the alarms had sounded Stiles had already run miles into the woods. He’d already shifted and was putting on speed. Recovering his sense of hearing from the twisted clinically devoid state of that building had left him scattered. He couldn’t track the world around him. 

His only directive was to run, spurred by fear and the pursuit of freedom. For the first three nights he thought the liberty he’d stolen was another hallucination. He only slowed to eat and sleep when his body was too trodden to keep moving.

Satomi’s emissary found him a week and a half later. They had tracked him despite his mastery of scent cloaking. He must’ve slipped. Normally, he was invisible when he wasn’t in heat. And he decidedly wasn’t any longer.

Roars, red eyes, and commands disrupted his delirium on repeat until he’d arrived home the last day of April. 

He still remembers the removal process. She didn’t take it all. She just took the time, the endless sucking void of missing stimuli. She abbreviated the experience. He kept the beginning and end. 

He rarely left his apartment until the following December. He’d had food delivered the entire year. Other than doctors’ appointments and work he was a ghost, extracted from the world.

He moved to a place in the city in January that was connected to a gym that had a track. He spent long hours running, coding, and sleeping. He retrofitted dimmer switches for every light fixture. 

He spent each day and night in a twilight haze, shades drawn, lights dimmed or off. The city sounds ushered each day forward. The rise and fall of the clambering told him he was another day further from that house, those walls of empty space. 

***

When Stiles comes to Peter is looking at him with concern. His hands are free, touching Stiles’s own at the tips of their fingers. 

Stiles stands and walks down the stairs. He goes into the heat room on the second floor. He shuts the door behind him, turns off the lights, and shuts the blinds. He takes his phone out of the sealed packaging and plugs his ears with headphones.

By the time Peter finally dares to breach the door the hallway is dim. The sunlight has faded, and the incoming, eerie, pre-dusk lighting does little to disrupt Stiles. Stiles looks up and shoves his phone and headphones back into the bag and seals it again. 

Stiles unfurls on the bed and hangs his head off the mattress. The comforter is wrapped around his body. “Can I help you,” Stiles says. His voice is quiet and monotone. 

“Can I help you?” Peter asks.

“What does that mean Peter? I don’t have time for games.”

“Seems to me that’s all you have time for, or at least what you agreed you wanted.” 

“And what is it you believe I want?” Stiles drawls.

“Curiously enough, you’re the first person I’ve met that I haven’t been able to figure that out for. At least, I can’t unless you tell me. I can’t pretend I don’t hate it. I do, however, enjoy the challenge,” Peter muses.

“So, you’re asking me to speak?” Stiles considers. He flickers his eyes open and closed while rolling them. 

“If you want to.” 

“I’d rather not.”

“May I enter?”

“No.” 

Peter pushes his lips together. “Alright, when you decide you’re ready come find me. I’ll make us something. I sent my pack and staff home for the day.”

“Will do.” Stiles pops his lips. 

Peter walks off and up the stairs. 

Stiles lays there until the moon is high in the night sky. He lets the night slip from him. The door is open, Peter never closed it. Stiles paid it no mind. There was almost no change in the sound filtering into the room with it open. It was dark enough that the lighting was the same. He laid in the darkness until his thoughts got the better of him. 

He pulls out the paper they’ve been writing on. He glares at it. He tosses it to the floor and slip from the warm blankets and travels up the stairs. 

Peter is lying in bed reading. Peter lowers the book and glances at him but says nothing. 

Stiles walks to the bathroom and stalls at the door. “Get up,” Stiles directs.

Peter raises an eyebrow. 

“Get up.” 

“This isn’t quite the relationship I had in mind for this year,” Peter comments and lifts himself from the bed. 

“Come over here,” Stiles says and walks into the bathroom. Water hits the floor of the shower before Peter even enters. Peter crosses to it and hangs his robe on a hook, leaving only his tight, square cut briefs on. 

Stiles still hasn’t taken off his clothes. His fists are clenched. His eyes are closed. “Order me to do this.”

“Stiles, are you sure?”

“It’s the only way I’m going to get through it.”

“We can wait until tomorrow.” Peter reaches for Stiles’s shoulder. 

Stiles steps back. “Peter, I know alphas are used to giving the orders, but I’ve made my decision. Order me to do this calmly,” Stiles demands. “Now. Are you going to honor our agreement or not?”

“Alright...” Peter’s eyes turn red and glow. The colors shift slowly. “Disrobe and get in the shower. Remain calm.”

Stiles feels himself collapse underneath the weight of the command. His breathing steadies and skin goes quiet. The prickling that hasn’t stopped since he left the roof subsides. His eyes flicker and his lids feel heavy. His shift flows across his body and and settles back beneath his normal appearance. 

He tugs off his shirt, Peter’s shirt. He places it on the bathroom vanity and then slips out of the shorts and underwear he’d donned this morning. Then he pulls off his socks.

Stiles feels himself drift into the shower and settled on the seat he’s taken as his own under the spray. It’s cold, but he barely feels it. 

Peter’s in front of him, overdressed, and frowning. He tests the water and adjusts the temperature. It goes hot. Stiles registers it, but it fades from his mind. 

Peter sits in front of him and pours some body wash into Stiles’s hand. His eyes are still red, mouth still pinched. 

“Stiles what do you need next?”

Stiles closes his eyes. He tries to focus. Peter’s voice yanks him just above the current. 

Stiles starts moving his hands, he rubs them together foaming the substance in his hands. He gingerly scrubs it into his skin. When he’s run out, Peter gives him more. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, he finishes. Peter doesn’t offer shampoo. Peter just washes his own chest and back. He then stands and gets Stiles to his feet. “Dry off.” He commands. 

The sound is quiet. It seeps through his mind slowly. Stiles gets out and does as he’s told. 

Peter closes the shower door behind Stiles. Stiles pauses his drying when A _schlop_ comes from inside the shower. He looks up. Nothing changed, Peter’s still upright so Stiles goes back to toweling his legs.

Peter doesn’t come out for a few more minutes. When he does, he’s already wrapped in a towel. 

“What next?” Peter asks. He cocks his head to the side a bit.

“We should go to sleep. I’m tired."

“Alright, get in bed I’ll meet you in a minute,” Peter says after his eyes have faded back to blue.

“Okay,” Stiles says and walks out of the bathroom. He climbs on the bed and covers himself in the blankets. He turns about and tries to get settled. He slaps his hands on the covers and sighs. 

Peter comes out and passes into the closet. He pulls on a pair of briefs and advances to the bed. He draws the covers and settles beneath them. He lays facing away from Stiles. 

Stiles arches an eyebrow. He shifts more in the bed. He looks out on the water. Dark clouds roll across the horizon. 

Stiles lays and fidgets. His heart nearly palpitates in his chest. 

Peter strikes out a hand and rests it over Stiles’s heart. “Stiles.”

“Could, could you just, tell me to sleep? I don’t think I’m going to be able tonight without.” 

“Alright,” Peter says. He turns and his eyes flash. “Relax and go to sleep.” Once he’s issued the command he immediately turns back around.

Stiles’s eyes grow heavy. His hands slow.

Peter’s breathing is steady. Every few seconds Stiles is drawn in by the steady push and pull of Peter’s lungs. It steadies him. His world fades to black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ummmm, yeah? I hope y'all enjoy. I edited a bunch of the scenes for ordering and a bunch of other reasons. It's a bit short, but I think it works and I don't really think I could've added any more in. I think the next chapter will be a bit more of unpacking/ healing etc kinda stuff. I've been watching a bunch of stuff recently to figure out how to improve my craft so hopefully you all will reap the rewards of my efforts. 
> 
> P.S. (I'm also trying to ensure I have enough word variance and avoiding having too many crutch words. I want to keep the imagery spicy and interesting. If you guys notice any I use a lot/too much feel free to tell me. A reader's eyes are always more keen than the authors.) 
> 
> XOXO Iru_Naru


	6. Are You Dazed or Am I?

Peter wakes to Stiles curled into his chest. His breaths are quiet and shallow. Peter smiles and closes his eyes once more.

Peter cuddles forward into Stiles. Stiles shifts and resettles his body in Peter’s arms. His face is warm and his vision behind his eyelids tinges a soft red. Stiles lets out a huff and Peter presses a kiss to his neck. He pulls back almost as soon as his lips graze Stiles’s skin.

Stiles rolls around and comes to rest facing Peter.

Peter’s eyes flutter open. He squints at Stiles.

Stiles’s face is neutral. Sleep has drained the ever-present curiosity from his face. The scowl is gone. Peter inches his face towards Stiles’s and stops just short of a kiss. The magnetism is unshakable. Stiles’s breath on his lips triggers a recollection of the heat and fear driven kiss Stiles had stolen from him the previous morning.

Peter’s shoulders go stiff and his hips roll instinctively. Stiles lets out a minute moan, a whispering breath. Peter drinks it in greedily. His lungs shudder when he finally breathes back out. Stiles’s chin hairs catch Peter’s and Peter feels the pull against his skin when he angles away. 

Peter rubs his chin with the hand that isn’t pinned beneath Stiles’s chest. When Stiles grabs his arm and pulls it in Peter’s heart skips a beat.

***

~20 Years Prior~

  
When he’d woken up on the day before the official start of heat week his brow was sweaty, and his palms were clammy. He stumbled out of bed and found Talia in the study. Her nose crinkled like a bag of chips and she frowned.

“Go take a shower, I’ll call Corrine to pick you up tonight.”

“What? Why?”

"Your first heat has started little wolf.” Talia pinched his ear. “You’re a man now.”

“I’ve been a man for a while Talia.”

“Not in the eyes of the Druid council,” She said. “Now go. I’ll have to alert them to the fact that you’ll be skipping the selection this year as we’ve made other arrangements.” She gives him a smack on the butt and points to the door.

“Alright,” Peter says. “Talia. Is it really that intense? I feel kind of-”

“Gross? James says it gets like that. Our first year he was a mix of shame and lust. I wouldn’t worry. Corrine should take good care of you. You’ve been discussing this for three years.”

“Okay,” Peter says and walks out.

\---

Peter still couldn’t believe this was happening. He’d known it would happen for a while, ever since he met Corrine he’d known it would actually happen. Talia had been telling him so for ages. He’d always been a late bloomer. He hadn’t kissed anyone until he was eighteen, three years prior. He hadn’t considered it. All the silly little omegas and betas had been positively clamoring over the prospect and had started experimenting years earlier, but he’d always had his mind elsewhere.

He could smell the interest coming off others at school. If he ever caught someone looking at him, they’d be staring at his lips or his eyes. The girls would giggle when he’d walk by. Their whispers were always the same.

“He’s so pretty.”

“When he smiles, I could just melt.”

He understood the appeal. Aesthetically, he was drawn to many of his classmates. But it didn’t cause the same reaction in him until well into his senior year.

He was playing basketball at an away game. Every so often he’d smell something coming from the stands of the opposing team. His laser focus kept breaking and his tight red gym shorts were suddenly a lot tighter. It got so bad that his coach pulled him from the game.

“Go find whoever is making you act like a horny teenager like the rest of these chuckle heads you call teammates and fix your shit or you’re out of the rest of the game.”

“Uhhh, Coach are you really supposed to be encouraging teenaged delinquency?” Peter asks.

“If I don’t are you going to perform any better?”

“I don’t know. This has never been an issue before.”

“That’s a no. Now get out of here.”

Peter left the gym that night with a poor addition to his point total for the year and Corrine’s number. 

***

“Good morning,” Peter greets.

“Go back to sleep, your heart is all fluttery. I need the quiet for my beauty rest.”

The blood rushes to Peter’s cheeks at the sound of the sleep rough voice. “Sorry, I didn’t know it was a crime to be awake.” Shifting his arm free earns a groan. 

“I was more comfortable with that where it was,” Stiles pouts. 

“You’re aggressive for someone so contrary.” Peter says. “I should probably go. You’re intense this morning.”

“I’m intense?” 

“Yes. I’m going to fix us some breakfast. Come down when you’re more suitable. I set the massage table outside on the beach in case we’d like to do that later.” 

“Alrighty, thanks Mr. Alpha Man.” 

“Of course,” Peter says tersely. Pulling his wrist lightly from Stiles’s grip, Peter leaves the bed and changes. It’s not enough to cleanse himself of Stiles. His very essence has seeped firmly into all the clothes in Peter’s closet. Peter thinks of Stiles’s thin fingers flipping through his shirts, pants, and underwear carelessly. He jerks a shirt from a hangar and changes into it. He finds some other stuff to put on and clambers down the stairs. 

Peter gets into the kitchen and seals the door behind him, cutting the sound of Stiles shifting in his bed from his ears. He sighs. 

Opening his eyes, he realizes the kitchen staff are already at work preparing meals for the day. 

“Leave,” Peter instructs. “I’ll handle meals for today. Thank you for your work this week.” 

They put everything they were working on away and leave quickly. Once they’re gone, Peter pulls out several bowls and pans he gets to work setting up lavender honey waffles, sausages, and eggs for an omelet. There are labels on all the cabinets for those who need them, but he doesn’t. 

Peter cooks most of his meals anyway. Usually, he has staff on hand mostly because he’s expected to. He pays them if they work the day or not. The money would waste away in his accounts if he didn’t waste it manually. If it weren’t for parties he likely wouldn’t host the position at all.

Growing up in a legacy pack had an impact on his skill set. His parents insisted he’d learned how to cook from a young age. He’d memorized the first few recipes in their cook book almost as soon as he could read. 

Stirring the batter quells his nerves. By the time his waffle iron is hot, he’s not. Peter pours the first waffle in and seals the lid. Then he moves to the fridge and grabs green peppers, spinach, ham, onions, and cheese. 

The first waffle is done when by the time he finishes cutting up the veggies. He places it on a platter and finds a pan for the eggs. Before turning the heat on, he pours some olive oil in the pan and sets it on the burner. The fire ignites and he returns to pouring the next waffle. 

Then, he whisks the eggs again and pours them in the pan. They crackle quickly and he drops the ingredients in the center adding the spinach and cheese last. He folds it over and let’s it’s it finish cooking. 

The second waffle is done shortly. He removes it and places it atop the first and prepares the next. 

Peter finds the warming tray and turns it on. Then he gets a small platter and cover for the omelet. He sets them on the warmer. He goes back to the stove top and turns on another burner for the sausage. He dumps the links on another skillet. Removing the eggs from the heat; he turns off their burner. Dishing and covering them shortly after, he returns to the waffle. 

Peter removes it and places the plate on the tray next to the eggs before covering them both. 

The sausages are nearly done when the kitchen door creaks open. 

“Smells good.” 

“Thanks, everything should be done in a moment,” Peter says waving his spatula. “Find us something to drink while you’re in here.”

“Sure, uh, where are the cups?” 

Peter gestures to the cabinets behind him and rotated the sausages again. 

“What do you want to drink?”

“Whatever you’d like is fine. They don’t stock it with anything I don’t like unless there’s a special request or a party.”

“Sounds good. You did this all yourself then?” Stiles asks, opening the lid to the omelet. 

“No peaking. Focus on the task at hand.”

“I hope there’s no onions in there. I’m deathly allergic,” Stiles says with a grin and leans against the counter across from him. 

“No, you’re not. I read your file.” 

“Okay but when I-” Stiles makes a choking sound. “And die it’s on you.” 

“You ate onions yesterday,” Peter says and pulls the glasses from the cabinet.

“Did I?” Stiles says with the astonishment of a three-year-old being confronted about the whereabouts of missing cookies. 

“Yes, now would you like to get us a drink or shall I have to arrest that responsibility from you as well.”

“No, I think I can manage,” Stiles says and opens the fridge door. He pulls out milk and pomegranate lemonade. “I’ll take these and the cups out there. Would you like me to come back in to help?”

“No, you can wait out there.” Peter says and does his best to keep his eyes on the food. “I’ll be done soon.”

Stiles decides to come back in once more for the plates and silverware. Peter rocks forward against the counter and nearly spills the syrup container he’s holding. Putting it down too quickly, Peter releases a clink that rings through Stiles’s spine. Stiles grabs matching porcelain plates and rushes out.

When Peter comes out of the kitchen with a large platter balanced on his right palm Stiles is sitting knees knocking together in his chair on the far side of their table. Stopping dead in his tracks; Peter floats through another rush. He focuses his eyes and sets them on the table. Putting the platter down is more difficult than he expected. Stiles had managed to set up the table in the exact way that would prevent it from fitting. Stiles scrambles to move everything as Peter waits. When it’s cleared, he sets it down and sits next to Stiles.

“You okay?” Stiles asks with a gulp.

“Yes.” Peter lies. “Shall we start?”

Stiles looks at the food on the table and hesitates. His fingers tremble and twitch. Peter remains still, transfixed, awaiting the next motion. It doesn’t come.

“It won’t be as difficult as last time,” Peter says. “You’re ready for it this time. The food is less intimate, that should help too.”

“Okay.” Stiles nods. “Who first?”

“Please, after you. I don’t think I could manage if I were to have to wait.”

“What?” After a moment Stiles blushes. “Right, sure.” He picks up a triangle of the cut up waffles and dips it one of the syrup saucers. “Here,” Stiles says offering it with a shaky hand.

Peter takes Stiles’s wrist to steady it and takes the first bite. He grumbles from deep in his chest as the flavor spreads like an infection over his tongue. Stiles continues to feed him, the trembling ebbs and flows away as he gets a handle on the sensation. By the time Peter can break away for something to drink Stiles has almost stopped shaking entirely. His cheeks are red, and the thready pace of his heartbeat draw Peter to him. He feels himself rise from his seat. Lurching off towards the middle of the room, Peter flees the magnetic sensation.

“Peter?” Stiles croaks out, voice rough and strained. It arrests Peter two steps away from the table.

“I need a moment. Please,” Peter says. “Cover the food. I’ll be back momentarily.” Rushing up the stairs towards the roof; Peter takes the steps two-three at a time. When he makes it up, he sucks in a gasp. His joints collapse and Peter collapses against the sandstone painted walls. The sheer black awning mocks him as it flutters in the wind. Even here the air has the faintest trace of Stiles. He waits until he can bear it and returns downstairs.

“Are you alright?” Stiles stands up and asks. “I can eat on my own. It’s really no trouble.”

“Stiles. It’s my turn. I will provide for you the same luxury you afforded me. Please sit.” Peter says and pushes a hand out in-front of himself. He rejoins Stiles at the table and uncovers the food. “What would you like to start with?” Peter asks and takes a gulp of the pomegranate lemonade.

“The omelet.” Stiles nods and grasps his hands together in his lap.

“Very well,” Peter says and grabs a fork. Peter does it by muscle memory. Each time, he portions out the food without looking. His eyes are trained on Stiles. Every twitch pulls him in a new direction. His partner’s body is always in motion. The man is a constant cascade of outputs challenging him to pull away while demanding Peter stay in place.

Stiles catches him in a perilous trap he’s loathed to escape. When they move to the waffles, Peter keeps with the fork to reinforce the distance. Even still, he’s still to close to Peter. He keeps grazing his fingers against Peter’s arm. It makes his arm hair stand on hair in constant tension awaiting the next distracted caress and abrupt loss of contact Stiles forces him to endure. By the time Stiles finishes, the tray is empty.

Finally looking Peter in the eyes, Stiles says “Thank you for cooking.” His voice is wrecked. It shambles into Peter’s ears and wakes him up, alerting him to the inversion of their circumstance. The man is nearly in his lap. Peter sets the fork down and retracts his hands. Stiles grabs Peter’s hand and pulls it to his face.

“Stiles? What are you doing?”

“Kiss me.”

“Stiles are you sure? Your scent is murderous today, you’re in a daze.”

“Peter. Kiss me,” Stiles demands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, hope you enjoyed. I'm not really sure how to make the next scene go, but I do know what I'm going to have happen in general. I hope that you're all staying well. I can't believe this disaster has lasted a year all ready. I'm just glad that I've been able to maintain my sanity. Not sure how long it'll be on the next chapter. Sorry for the long absence, after sorting out my family drama I wasn't too interested in writing for a bit. And I wrote a one shot to distract myself from story development.   
> Kisses   
> XOXO Iru_Naru


	7. Waffling: I Wish He Made It Easier To Hate Him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ummm.... so I thought I was just going to continue the story, but then my brain decided to translate the events from the last chapter into this. So I hope you all enjoy the POV swap. Don’t worry. The next chapter will have entirely new plot development. I do know how far I want to take it, so i have a plan. On the upside you get more story earlier.

Stiles wakes from his first dreamless night in years to the sensation of Peter grinding against him. Warmth spreads through his groin and drags him more towards consciousness. He can’t help making a sound on his next exhale. Peter’s body is solid against his and reassures him more than it has any right to.

He shifts, rolling to get more comfortable, he lands in the nook of Peter’s chest and arm. He grabs Peter’s arm on reflex to get the jostling to stop. He wraps it over his shoulder. The air in his lungs thins, heats, and goes clammy. It gives him a quiet head rush and drives him back below the threshold to sleep once Peter’s body goes quiet beneath him.

\---

Stiles wakes again when Peter’s heart starts thumping loud enough to provide the bassline to a rave. He ignores it at first content to drift, but it’s inconsistent and worries at his ear. When he can’t stand it anymore, Peter speaks.

“Good morning.”

“Go back to sleep, your heart is all fluttery. I need the quiet for my beauty rest,” Stiles grumbles.

“Sorry, I didn’t know it was a crime to be awake,” Peter laughs. 

“I was more comfortable with that where it was,” Stiles pouts when the arm holding him withdraws.

“You’re aggressive for someone so contrary.” Peter goes quiet for a moment before continuing to disrupt his doze. “I should probably go. You’re intense this morning.”

“I’m intense?” Stiles wonders. His eyelids are heavy. The meaning eludes him. Stiles catches Peter’s hand before he can sit up and slip away entirely.

“Yes. I’m going to fix us some breakfast. Come down when you’re more suitable. I set the massage table outside on the beach in case we’d like to do that later.” 

“Alrighty, thanks Mr. Alpha Man.” Stiles settles back into the pillows and sighs.

“Of course,” Peter pulls his wrist lightly from Stiles’s grip and the bed rocks. Sounds come from the closet until Peter leaves the bedroom and his footsteps fade down the stairs.

Stiles lounges in the bed wrapped up in Peter’s musk and the warm blankets until the smell of food cooking downstairs lures him from the bed. He gets off the bed and his body drifts lightly over the hardwood floors. He gets halfway down the first set of stairs before the breeze hits him. His spine and legs shiver. Panicked, he turns around and makes way for the shower to rinse off and cool down. Under the icy spray, his head clears. He gets out, picks the loosest clothes he can find, and makes his way back out to the hall.

He hovers at the kitchen door, listening to the scraping coming from beyond the door. He opens it and walks in. He tries not to cringe as the door creaks. When he opens his eyes, Peter’s alone in the kitchen.

“Smells good,” He offers. Quiet to his ears, his voice still fills the empty room.

“Thanks, everything should be done in a moment,” Peter says without looking up.“Find us something to drink while you’re in here.” He waves the spatula in Stiles direction while steadfastly holding eye contact with the waffle maker. 

“Sure, uh, where are the cups?” 

Peter gestures to the cabinets behind him and then rotates the sausages without explaining further. 

“What do you want to drink?” Stiles prods. 

“Whatever you’d like is fine.” Peter’s voice is level, monotone in its regularity. “They don’t stock it with anything I don’t like unless there’s a special request or a party.”

“Sounds good. You did this all yourself then?” Stiles asks, opening the lid to the omelet. 

“No peaking. Focus on the task at hand.”

Stiles looks back to Peter who’s frowning at him. “I hope there’s no onions in there. I’m deathly allergic,” Stiles says with a grin and leans against the counter across from him. 

“No, you’re not,” Peter denies, looking Stiles dead in the eye. “I read your file.” Peter smirks are Stiles and Stiles’s belly flops. 

“Okay but when I-” Stiles jokes and cuts his sentence off with a grotesque gurgle while wrapping his hands around his own neck. “And die it’s on you.” 

“You ate onions yesterday,” Peter catches him, waves him off, and turns around. He pulls some glasses from the cabinet and sets them between the two of them. He slides them towards Stiles and then retreats back beyond to the far side of the table where he’s preparing food.

“Did I?” Stiles continues the charade. His cheeks are warm. Stiles succumbs to the strange coziness of the environs despite the pristine chrome’s sterile appearance. 

“Yes, now would you like to get us a drink or shall I have to arrest that responsibility from you as well.” Peter’s voice is strained. He won’t look at him again. Eye contact once again lost, Stiles pulls back in suit. 

He shuffles his hands together before responding. “No, I think I can manage,” Stiles says and opens the fridge door. Studying the contents proves fruitless. The options are too numerous to provide him any incite. Eventually, he pulls out milk and pomegranate lemonade. “I’ll take these and the cups out there.” He points out to the dining room, but Peter is still looking away. “Would you like me to come back in to help?” 

“No, you can wait out there. I’ll be done soon,” Peter dismisses him. 

Stiles waits at the table for a few minutes. He forgot the plates and silverware of course, so all he set up was a set of glasses and two remarkably unimpressive half gallon jugs. He rearranges them several times. Unsatisfied, Stiles decides goes back in once more for the plates and silverware. 

The moment he enters the kitchen again, Peter rocks forward against the counter and nearly spills the syrup container he’s holding.The moment the porcelain hits the steel the resounding clink runs through his spine like his body’s a tuning fork. 

Once he recovers, Stiles grabs silverware and matching porcelain plates before rushing out.

Stiles sets the plates and silverware in a dozen ways before he hears Peter preparing to leave the kitchen. He leaves everything at a diagonal that allows them to sit together. They’ll be closer this way. He looks at the paper. Reading the rules leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He folds the contract once more and puts it in his pocket before resting his hands in his lap. 

Peter enters the room and stops mid-step.The difficulty with which he regains motion hurts to watch. Peter eventually focuses his eyes on the table. Stiles looks at it and then back to the massive serving tray. 

Stiles scrambles to move everything as Peter walks over. When it’s cleared, Peter sets it down. Then, he sits next to Stiles with a sigh. 

“You okay?” Stiles gulps and settled back in himself.

“Yes.” Peter says unreadable. “Shall we start?”

Stiles looks at the food on the table and hesitates. His fingers tremble and twitch. At a loss for words, he looks back to Peter. His cheeks burn. Tingling spreads through his fingers. 

“It won’t be as difficult as last time,” Peter rushes out. “You’re ready for it this time. The food is less intimate, that should help too,” he finishes slower. 

“Okay.” Stiles nods. “Who first?”

“Please, after you. I don’t think I could manage if I were to have to wait.” Peter breathes out.

“What?” Stiles asks, and after a moment the burning of his cheeks scorches through his chest. “Right, sure.” He grabs the nearest option, waffles, and dips it one of the syrup saucers. “Here,” Stiles says and thrusts it towards Peter with a shaky hand.

Peter takes Stiles’s wrist to steady it and takes the first bite. Stiles eyes go fuzzy the moment Peter sinks his teeth into it. Lips glance off his fingers as Peter eats frazzling Stiles’s every nerve. A quiet rumble from deep within Peter’s chest builds to a roar in Stiles’s ears. 

In Stiles’s better moments his vision clears, and the shaking ceases. However, he loses his composure often, causing his mouth to dry out each time. Peter saves him with a soft, grounding touch whenever the shaking threatens to send the food to the ground. 

The terrifying full body prickle settles to a simmering sleep like numbness. By the time Peter stops feeding, Stiles has a handle on the sensation. He can still barely breathe and his heart is nearly palpitating, but he keeps from collapsing. 

Peter rises towards him. For a moment their lips are barely separated. When Stiles leans in, Peter lurches treacherously off towards the middle of the room. As if he were dunked in a vat of ice water, Stiles snaps awake. 

“Peter?” Stiles barks out, voice rough and strained. It arrests Peter two strides from the table. Stiles reaches out for him; but Peter doesn’t see it, doesn’t take his hand. 

“I need a moment. Please,” Peter begs. “Cover the food. I’ll be back momentarily.” 

Peter takes the steps two-three at a time. 

In a moment or two he’s gone from sight and Stiles is left hungry and alone in the dining room. He covers the food and waits. The thumping in Stiles’s chest slows. His foot starts tapping on the rung of the chair. He wrings his hands until they go bright red. When he hears feet hit the stairs, he chugs a glass of milk and pours a new glass for himself. 

“Are you alright?” Stiles stands up when Peter reaches the bottom of the stairs. “I can eat on my own. It’s really no trouble.” He moves to close the distance.

“Stiles. It’s my turn. I will provide for you the same luxury you afforded me. Please sit.” Peter blocks all further offers with an extension of his hand. He rejoins Stiles at the table and uncovers the food. “What would you like to start with?” Peter asks and then drains half a glass of the lemonade. 

“The omelet.” Stiles grasps his hands together in his lap. He worries at the soft spot between his left thumb and forefinger. 

“Very well,” Peter says and grabs a fork. Peter’s hand is steady in a vicious mockery of Stiles’s struggle. His eyes are trained on Stiles. They don’t leave even to portion out food. Stiles twitches under the force of Peter’s gaze. He squirms in his chair. His flush returns quickly. He fights it down and mutes the preening his body is reflexively engaging in. 

When they move to the waffles, Peter keeps with the fork. Even still, he’s stiflingly close to Stiles. It gets worse every moment. Stiles’s feet keep knocking the chair forward.

Trying to make distance by pushing Peter away is a bust. Every time Stiles’s palms or finger tips make contact with Peter’s skin, another shot of dopamine floods his brain cutting the attempts short. 

“Thank you for cooking,” Stiles says when he finishes. He croaks on the words as if he hadn’t just drained a pint of lemonade along with a meal for two. 

Peter’s eyes are looking up at him. Cunning, clear, and blue, they’re searching him and it makes Stiles look away. The fork clinks on the table. On instinct, Stiles grabs Peter’s hand and pulls it to his face.

“Stiles? What are you doing?” Peter’s eyes are blown wide and he’s already pulling away. 

“Kiss me.” Stiles pushes in as close as he can without initiating. 

“Stiles are you sure? Your scent is murderous today, you’re in a daze.”

“Peter. Kiss me,” Stiles demands.


End file.
